


Hot and Cold

by TheWeirdDane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gift Exchange, M/M, Secret Relationship, Teenlock, Winter Mystrade Exchange, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWeirdDane/pseuds/TheWeirdDane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is a normal teenage with a heavy need for vacation. When it becomes summer and he travels, he finds more than just beaches and palm trees. Mycroft Holmes is a mysterious man, and even more so when he suggests they engage in a relationship that Greg is completely unfamiliar with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr-user alexiamacleod for the Winter Mystrade Exchange. I hope it is, just somewhat, to your liking. :)

Spring was the beginning of Greg's favourite season of the year. It was just before summer, and even though all the exams were squeezed together over a course of two weeks, it was glorious. It meant hard and intense focus for a relatively short period of time, and after that came holiday. A wonderful, long month where he shouldn't think of school, his classmates or the incredibly strict teachers. Of course, there were some he would miss – like his chemistry teacher, he was pretty cool and also young, and his classmate Vicky. Vicky was cool, kind of punk and she was this endearing, rebellion kind of girl that Greg wouldn't mind getting to second base with. They hadn't known each other for long, barely a year now, but they just clicked from their first meeting. A polite hello and wham, Vicky showed Greg a thing or two about women. 

But for now, Greg didn't have much to spare for Vicky, or any other girl for that matter. Exams were upon them, and their teachers admonished them about studying, studying and studying. It bothered and stressed them all, yet some took it better than others. Vicky was cool with it and didn't seem to care much for her grades or further academic success whatsoever. Greg kinda admired her for that – he couldn't just sit back in his chair and draw on the backside of his papers. His parents expected a serious investment in his studies, and while Greg wasn't one to disappoint them, he had one goal in mind – his parents had, as it just happened, promised him he could take the entire month of holiday off and away. They wouldn't go with him, and they wouldn't bother him with concerned e-mails or phone calls. Greg could go wherever he wanted, for as long as he wanted. Provided he came home in time for the new semester, of course. This was like a carrot made of pure gold compared to the stick a lot of the other students got. 

Greg knew that Simon, for instance, was expected to ace every exam, and if he didn't, he was grounded. That was obviously a huge pressure, and it was visible. Poor Simon spent every break studying and preparing for the classes, mumbling to himself and writing notes here, scratching over other notes there. It was sort of hypnotizing and disturbing. No child, or, teenager as they were now, should be made a slave of their parents' expectations like that. It was wrong, in Greg's eyes. He tried to talk sense into Simon and make him see that he shouldn't let his parents live out their academic dreams through him but he kept shaking his head and mumbling that they were right, that he had to study, and study hard. 

So Greg had it very easy and relaxed compared to some. Maybe it was worth mentioning that his parents hadn't gone to college, so they were kinda understanding that Greg might not do so well. They were relaxed about the whole thing and didn't pressure him, although they, of course, wanted him to have good grades. 

Exams started. Students went crazy. They cheated. They cried. The hallways were thick with fear and stress and the enveloping stench of coffee. Students didn't go home but slept in the libraries, using the newest dictionaries as pillows and blankets as duvets. It was hell, they were sure. Several students were witness of Simon having an outright breakdown halfway through oral mathematics. Greg was the first one to reach him once done with his own exam, and while he did manage talk him down a bit, Simon was a mess the rest of the day. He was declared unable to continue and would have to retake his exams at a later point. 

Greg could only imagine the disappointed and positively livid parents that awaited him. 

At least he got home with grades satisfactory to himself and his parents. Very satisfactory, actually. And from there on, planning began. Greg searched for warm, sunny 100%-snow-and-rain-free places to go on vacation. He considered main destinations in Spain, France, Italy, but figured there would be too big of a risk to meet his classmates. He didn't want that, he wanted to go on vacation! Without having to worry about grades, what this classmate thought of that classmate, who did what with who and so on and on and on. It was boring.  
So he found himself a lovely spot in Spain that he was pretty sure no one he was familiar with knew of. Nerja, on Costa del Sol. Sunny beaches and crystal-clear water. Lots of history if he should feel the need to brush up his knowledge one day. Supposedly pretty wild at night, too, and he certainly wasn't one to turn down a party or two. Greg allied himself with coffee and Google and researched the town for hours until he decided, yes, this would be his vacation destination. 

He wasn't exactly rich, and Nerja wasn't exactly cheap. This was a problem that burst his bubble. Of course, he could take some small jobs here and there until he had the funds needed. But it would be very hard, and he wasn't even sure he could manage to earn it all anyway. He really didn't like to ask his parents for money for this sort of thing so he tried really hard to avoid it. In the end, it turned out he didn't have to. 

A week after exams had ended, Greg went downstairs to talk with his parents about this money problem he had found. However, he found the living room empty. The kitchen as well. No signs of life in the bathroom, and although he sort of feared to enter, there were no one in his parents' bedroom, either. 

Slightly freaked out, Greg entered the kitchen again and scanned it more carefully, thinking he might have missed a note of sorts. Eyeing a purple piece of paper on the fridge, he took it and read it. His heart started pounding a tad faster, with both wonder and excitement. 

Look in the chest in the hallway.   
Love, mom and dad

Greg just about flew into the hallway and tore open the chest. In it lay, of course, old jackets and boots none of them really used, an old and twisted umbrella, two pairs of socks, and, Greg's hands snatched it the moment he saw it, a purple envelope. 

Greg didn't get the purple thing, but his mother seemed to adore the colour. 

It was thick and heavy in his hands. Tryingly, he shook it against his ear. It chinked. He decided to carry it to the kitchen and sat by the counter, crushing the opening of the envelope with slightly trembling fingers. God, he felt so... Young! Excited! He had several thoughts of what this might be, and he knew he should feel bad for it but he couldn't help it. If it was money for his trip (but they didn't even know where to! The currency might be all wrong!) or a ticket (but again, no known destination!) or a gift voucher! Ohh, yes, a gift voucher, that could be it! That would be absolutely …!

Out fell coloured notes and heavy coins – not as heavy as British pounds, though – and a folded piece of paper. Greg looked the content over, trying to piece together what he saw. Euros, definitely Euros, that note was a 20, for sure, the blue one. His hands ran over the paper as if he had never touched money before, then he grabbed the white piece of paper. 

As he had expected, it was a note from his parents that explained what he needed to know for now. 

Dear Greg,  
Now that you've got this money, we assume you know what to do. Nerja is waiting for you, and so are the young and beautiful women, or men if you're into that sort of thing.

Warmth spread over Greg's cheeks as he groaned a 'Moooom' at the note but he was smiling from ear to ear nonetheless. 

We expect you back around the end of the month, although if you don't, we wouldn't know. To give you this money, we have been forced to work during summer vacation. No worries, though, we'll instead take it just around the time you start in school again. That way, you will have more time on your own, and your special someone if you've got one at that point. 

But now, go book your flight and hotels. We won't interrupt, but do remember that we're always ready to help. With anything. 

Love, mom and dad  
P.S.: We are very proud of your grades. And we looked through your browsing history to find out details about your trip. We pretend we don't know about your... late-night searches for young women, don't you agree?

He looked at the note for a good half minute before he realized he had a tear in his eyes. Quickly, he brushed it away with a hand and cleared his throat. God, this was... this was amazing! That they would do this for him. His eyes ran over the money again, frantically. There had to be at least two hundred Euros, at the very, very least, probably twice that. Maybe even five hundred, yes, that would be more like it. 

Greg counted them precisely, and there was exactly five hundred and twenty four Euros. He sat still for a moment, then leaned back heavily the back of the chair, hands in his hair. That was a lot of money. And his parents had done this... how could he ever show his gratitude? 

But that was a worry for another time. For now, he had to book his vacation. 

\----------------

It took a lot of willpower to remain in his seat once the plane's undercarriage made contact with the runway at Málaga Airport. He wanted to bounce right out and to his hotel, drop off his luggage and go into town. But he had to wait, and it was agonizing. 

Finally, they were allowed to get up. Greg was one of the first and he praised the Lord he sat close to the aisle. Grabbing his small suitcase with a dancing heart, he made his way through the plane, nodded enthusiastically to the air hostesses and trotted down the stairs and towards the terminals. 

When he stepped out, it was like running headfirst into a wall of heat. The sun was high in the sky and radiated immense rays of warmth that Greg was not used to at all. He had prepared from home and was only wearing a light T-shirt and shorts, no socks in the sandals. His luggage was the small suitcase he had brought on the plane, so there was no need to hang around the terminals. 

Outside, he stopped and looked around, a foolish grin latched onto his face. God, this was going to be great! Away from the miserable rain and heavy clouds over England, out into the heat and sun of Spain. He found a bus terminal and scanned the bus schedules. After realizing the only Spanish he knew was 'Beer, please', 'yes', 'no' and 'thank you', Greg gave up on reading the schedule and settled with looking at the numbers. 

While waiting, he let everything new overwhelm him. Trees he had only seen in movies and online could be spotted in the horizon, shimmering in the hot air that forced beads of sweat down Greg's forehead. Gazing around, he saw all sorts of people. Tourists for sure, locals, people accustomed to the heat but not from this area of Spain. People like him, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, people clawing at their jackets to get them off so they wouldn't melt on the spot, people dragging big suitcases and trolleys behind them, talking and laughing. 

Greg's grin was still in place when a tall, curved woman with mocca coloured skin and long black dreadloocks came over and sent him a polite smile before asking him something in rapid Spanish. It took Greg a moment to focus on the words and not her surprisingly deep, smooth voice, then hold up his hands and shake his head. 

“No... no español,” he said. She was beautiful. Twinkling eyes and full lips, a wide nose, slightly marked cheekbones. 

“Oh, ¡perdona!" she exclaimed, to which Greg just chuckled. He looked at her as she clearly tried to find the words in English. She looked at the schedule plan and around her, clearly looking for something. 

"Nerja?" he tried, and she pointed at him instantly, smiling wide and excitedly blabbering something more in Spanish. 

"Me uh... me too." He pointed at himself and then gave a thumbs-up, trying to explain. She just laughed and pointed at the empty space beside him. Greg nodded and moved a bit to the other side. She sat down. 

For a while, they sat in silence before Greg turned his upper body a bit to look at her. 

"Me... mi name es Greg."

She turned her head and flashed a smile that made Greg's lips turn up even more. Even her teeth were beautiful. Even, white, a bit in the bigger end of the scale, maybe, but nothing too noticeable. Greg's eyes rested on her lips a moment too long before finding her's. 

"Mi nombre es Ana."

Once more searching his mind for a possitive Spanish adjective, Greg made some handgestures, opening and closing his mouth, until he realized he knew nothing but 'bien'. 

"Bien," he therefore said and felt like an absolute moron. How could he not have brushed up his, frankly, horrible Spanish? He gave the girl a quick glance before looking away, feeling his cheeks heat up without any relation to the weather. 

The awkward I-actually-really-want-to-talk-to-you-but-I-don't-know-how-to-communicate silence continued for another few minutes until a bus arrived and opened its rusty doors. Greg let Ana get in before he did, taking the seat beside her. 

When the bus was full and rattled on, Ana initated contact by showing her driver's license and pointing at the country she was from.

"Ah!" Greg exclaimed, feeling a jump in his chest when his tongue scrambled to explanations before his mind could follow. "Englaaa--- er, Englantio? Engla-" She chuckled and it was such a sweet sound Greg decided he could listen to it forever. He gestured drinking tea of a cup and opening an umbrella, hoping Ana was getting this, because he felt completely ridiculous, and people were looking. 

"Inglaterra?"

"Sí! Sí, sí, sí!" he burst out and turned his body towards Ana, who copied him, eyes twinkling, and her mouth was instantly working off several Spanish phrases that Greg had no chance of deciphering. He just smiled and chuckled where he found a word that sounded familiar, nodded and made gestures with his hands to show he was interested and listening, despite not understanding a thing. 

The busride wasn't as bad as expected from reviews but it wasn't a luxury trip, either. The roads were in bad condition and the heat was becoming harder to bear. Greg wasn't used to this amount of heat for this amount of time. But he was cheerful – once he had dropped his suitcase off at the hotel, he would go to the nearest beach and take a swim. Maybe Ana wouldn't mind coming along? 

Greg's eyes ran up and down her body when she was taking a look outside. She really had a hot body. Not skinny but not chubby, either. She had curves, lovely curves, and Greg wouldn't mind seeing her in a bathing suit or bikini. But it wouldn't be very gentlemanly to ask her to go to the beach with him. It might as well be lucky that she wouldn't understand even if he tried.

They kept communicating in bad Spanish, English and weird hand gestures and sounds throughout the ride, and even when they had to change bus at another bus station. When the bus stopped for the last time, Greg hurried out with his suitcase in one hand and jacket in the other. He waited for Ana outside, a mess of languages passing by him along with other people. She exited and smiled at him before waving at someone. 

Greg turned around and saw a big guy, tan and muscly, make his way over to them. It didn't take Greg more than three seconds to realize that this was Ana's boyfriend. The way they looked at each other and laced their fingers together said more than just friends. 

The newcomer looked a bit wary and asked Ana something in Spanish, to which she replied with more Spanish but Greg now recognized more words, especially 'Inglaterra'. The guy looked much more relaxed and even shook Greg's hand, beaming at him. 

"England! My my, I always wanted to go there. Where in England?"

Taken by surprise at his surprisingly good English, Greg answered, and they all three continued chatting as they moved towards the center of the town. 

It wasn't a long walk, fifteen minutes max. Greg parted ways with Ana and Rico, as they were called, to find his own hotel, carrying their number in his pocket. They had promised to meet later at a local bar, and Greg was vibrant with excitement. 

He found his hotel and checked in, relieved that the receptionist was fluent in English. It was a small hotel. Bright, light colours with lots of decorations in form of paintings and a few sculptures. Potted plants gave the rooms atmosphere and a calming shine depending on their colours. On his way, he grabbed several brochures for things he was just mildly interested in, and it soon became hard to carry all his stuff. He stopped here and there to admire the view – mountains on one side, sea on the other. It was beautiful. 

When he finally reached his room, Greg turned the key in the lock with great excitement and pushed open the door with his suitcase. It was a wonderful room. Not too big, but with a double-bed – who knew if Greg would happen to get laid? - and a nice armchair, a small table and a desk on which a small, old television was placed. In the hallway was a wardrobe built into the wall, and to the right was the door to the bathroom. Just as light and white as the rest, it had a shower and a bathtub. Towels folded as an elephant-head rested on the toilet board and made Greg chuckle to himself. This would turn out quite nicely, he was sure. 

He unpacked and put the suitcase in the bottom of the wardrobe and walked to the balcony. Pushing the glass doors open, he stepped forward and let the fresh air and smell of the sea hit his face. A smile grew on his lips and his fingers grabbed the railing as if for support. He breathed in slowly, allowing this new and exciting atmosphere to fill his lungs and body, and exhaled just as slowly, freeing the old and tiresome, grey atmosphere from England. 

It was time to go wild. 

And go wild, Greg did. Not so much the first night because he had to be calm and nice towards Ana and Rico but the days after were meant to party. His two new friends had given him advice and tips about anything from bars to restaurants to stores to beaches. Following their advice, he quickly found his favourite place to drink and his favourite place to eat. 

His days started with a quick jog in the closest streets, a shower, breakfast at the hotel and then a walk to the beach. Some days he would swim, others he would just sit in a lounger and watch the other tourists. There were days, if the party the night before hadn't been too wild, he would also read. A good book in his hand and a cold drink by his side was a perfect way to spend the time before siesta. When siesta set in, he would stroll around in the streets and admire the buildings, on the sandy coasts to admire the view or other guests, or lie in bed and think about how great he had it. He really didn't want to go back to school. 

When siesta was over, Greg found himself something cultural to do. It wouldn't do to lose touch with culture altogether. The museums were interesting enough but most of it was in Spanish, only a small part of the information translated into English. It was fine, though. Greg loved walking around and just feeling the atmosphere, the freedom of knowing he would be here for a few weeks and do pretty much whatever he wanted. 

Then it was time for dinner, and Greg went to the same special restaurant after some days of experimenting. His chosen dining place was old and with floors made of wood and walls of rocks. It made a raw but beautiful impression, and the food was delicious. They served traditional Spanish cuisine – tapas, which Greg wasn't too fond of, he found – and a ton of other food he was far more familiar with and attracted to. Of course, he had tried tapas a few times here but it just wasn't his cup of tea.

After stuffing himself with all sorts of exotic food, Greg went back to his hotel to change to something more festively. It was time to spice up the night with a sprinkle of alcohol and a touch of dance. 

Back home, Greg wasn't known for his fondness of parties but that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate them. If he had to be honest with himself, it was mostly because the others would make fun of his lacking dancing skills. He was also pretty sure he wasn't too good at handling his liquor, and he had no desire whatsoever to let his classmates witness his first fuck up caused by alcohol. He would never hear the end of it. 

After his first night out with Ana and Rico, he was on his own which he didn't mind. Greg wouldn't exactly call himself a loner but he liked to do things his way and in his pace. It gave him freedom. 

His preferred bar quickly became a big, flashy one with two floors. The ground floor was loud and a surging sea of humans wriggling and writhing to the music, singing – or in some cases, screaming – along while only taking care not to spill their drinks. The moves were elegant, almost sophisticated, as well as they were erratic, and being in the middle of it all brought an incredible energy to the very center of Greg's body that made him able to continue until four in the morning where he would finally stumble home and sleep for a few hours before the day went on repeat.  
The upper floor was calmer and more private – it was here people went with people they wanted to snog. 

But even so, the days were never really the same. Some days, he met beautiful women and chatted them up, feeling a warm wave of confidence roll through him. He sometimes wondered what it was about this place that made him feel like this. But then he would push it away – he didn't want to ruin the magic. 

Greg had some lucky times. Indeed, his double bed would occasionally be occupied by not only him, but also a beautiful woman, and once, a man. He had the time of his life and felt lighter than he had done for many years, and there was no doubt in his mind that he had done the right thing by taking a proper vacation. 

He really didn't want to go back to school.

But alas, the good and carefree times couldn't last forever. The time came where it was Greg's last day by the sunny beaches and tall palm trees. It was with great disappointment that he packed his party clothes away – he had decided not to party or drink too much on his last day. It would make for a very uncomfortable trip home if he had a hangover. 

So Greg took it easy. After his scheduled jog, he went to the beach with a towel and a book. As always, the sun was high in the sky, and it was almost cloudless. The wind was nothing more than a lazy puff once in a while, and as a result, it was incredibly hot outside. But the hotter the better for Greg. 

He put on his shades and pitched himself on a lounger with a drink by his side and the book in his hands. 

With the sound of water gently lapping at the hot sand and kids cheering and screaming, it was like in a movie. The only sound missing was the crying seagulls. It was absolutely perfect for Greg, and seeing as he was deeply absorbed in his book, it took him a long while to recognize the feeling of being watched. It wasn't as much a guess as it was a prickling sensation on his face.

He moved his head to the side slowly, lazily, and found a man looking right at him. It took Greg a good few seconds to register than the man was ridiculously over-dressed. It was at least 35 degrees Celsius, and the approaching gentleman's body was clad in a heavy-looking, grey suit, complete with shoes and cane. In the cane-free hand he held a book identical to the one Greg had been enjoying a few seconds ago. 

His eyebrows knotted together, and he straightened a bit on the lounger, watching as the man came closer. He couldn't be more than a few years younger, Greg guessed and flashed a polite, albeit questioning smile. 

"Loud words, silent fear." The words were uttered with a perfect English accent and smooth, surprisingly deep voice. Slightly tilting lips revealed two rows of white, straight teeth. 

Greg looked up at his eyes, which were of a colour he didn't know how to describe. They could be grey but looked a bit too light for that. Maybe a tint of blue? Or maybe it was the sun fooling him? Either way, they were peculiar. 

"Excuse me?"

The man pointed at the heavy book in Greg's hands. 

"Ah, yes, of course." Greg turned the book over a few times, looking at the grey cover and colourful back. 

"How far are you?" he asked when the newcomer didn't seem willing to initiate a conversation, despite it being him coming up to Greg.

"Just finished it for the fifth time." 

"Oh, wow, that's... that's nice. You like it, I assume?" 

"I quite enjoy it, yes. I find it fascinating how the human mind handles various challenges, namely the ones we find all around us."

Greg just nodded and smiled, a bit more stiff. The man seemed a tad... weird. Uptight? But then a tan hand was stretched out to him, and the man smiled again, almost friendly, and the thought was blown away. 

"Mycroft Holmes."

Greg returned the hand shake. 

"Greg Lestrade. Nice meeting you."

To that, Mycroft didn't answer. There was something about him, though, that Greg found interesting, even if he had no idea what. 

The newcomer smoothly pulled another lounger closer to Greg's and sat down opposite him. Greg shifted on the warm cushion. Mycroft was looking straight at him with slightly narrowed eyes, as if he was studying him like one would a piece of art. 

Under the almost suffocating heat and now also the piercing look from a pair of clear, indefinable eyes, it began to feel a lot hotter than before, and Greg could practically feel beads of sweat form on his forehead and neck. He took a sip of his drink and though it cooled his throat, it didn't help the silence. 

He scrambled to words, eager to make the incipient tension disappear. 

"So, do you read a lot, Mycroft?" While being fully aware it was a ridiculous question, it was the first one that came to mind. 

"Quite so. Although, I very rarely bother myself with imaginative litterature. I find that, despite the adventures you can go on and things you can see, scientific litterature is much more stimulating."

Greg's eyebrows knotted together again. That was outright contradictory. It was exactly in imaginative litterature you got stimulated. It was these adventures that were thought-provoking and forced you to take a stand on things. 

He explained this to Mycroft whose smile diminished a tad but somehow got warmer.

"Do enlighten me."

And Greg did. They talked for a long time. It turned from showing a polite interest in the other's opinions and person to digging deep into the mind and philosophy of the person across. As they talked, Greg noticed that he relaxed more and more until he was entirely comfortable, and his body sunk a bit. Mycroft, however, kept his straight back and smile that never reached his eyes. 

Greg got a feeling that the man was fighting to both keep him at a distance and pull him closer. 

It was around noon when Mycroft got up just as Greg was about to finish a sentence. They had talked for a good few hours, and the kids were gone from the beach. The sun burned harder than ever but they had abandoned the loungers and moved into the shadows when they both realized they would be conversing for a while.

Greg was confused – Mycroft didn't seem to sweat at all. His face was a bit red but that could as well have been a beginning sunburn. The clothes were tight over his slightly meaty body and granted him an appearance of wealth. 

"I'd better be off," he said and looked down at Greg as he picked up his cane and supported himself against it. "It was a pleasure talking to you, Greg."

Now Greg got up, too, and felt his heart make a sudden jump that sent a painful jolt through his body. He didn't want to end the conversation here. He would very much like to pick it up later if possible. 

Before he knew of it, he had blurted out "Can we meet later and continue?" He watched Mycroft's eyebrows rise just a bit and his lips do a little twitch, as if he was fighting himself not to smile. He didn't answer immediately, though, and this was what made Greg's heart beat faster.

"Very well," he agreed. "I have time at five. I hope that will be satisfactory?" The tone he used was light and amused, making Greg feel a sudden wave of confidence. 

He nodded eagerly and held the book against his chest. 

"It's great. It's my last day here, so I don't have any plans, anyway."

"Yes, I noticed," Mycroft commented and stretched out a hand towards the road to the center. Greg frowned but started walking. 

"How could you possibly know?"

Mycroft looked at him and smiled before following.


	2. Chapter 2

At five o'clock, Greg was standing by the entrance to their chosen restaurant. Truth be told, he had been there about ten minutes early. 'Just to be sure' he had told himself plenty of times as he strolled over the sunlit pavement, hands in his pockets and a foolish grin on his face. Now he stood there, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. Why was he so excited about meeting Mycroft again, anyway? They were just going to talk about books and have dinner.

He knew, though, that some small part of him wanted it to go further. He was very well aware of the part that longed for a taste of Mycroft's lips, no matter how evanescent, but he did his best to hold this part down. It would most likely never happen. Greg was going home tomorrow, and though Mycroft seemed to come from England as well, the chances of meeting again were minimal. 

But you were allowed to wish, right? Greg just hoped he wouldn't be smiling and glaring obviously like a stupid teenage boy. Which he was, frankly. That might be a bit tricky to cover up.

Mycroft arrived precisely on time, cane in hand and a hat covering his short, slicked-back hair. He wasn't very old, still in his teens, but his hairline was already slightly retreating, Greg had noticed. 

They shook hands and entered the restaurant. Greg immediately looked for an empty table but Mycroft waved at a waitress and engaged in a fluent Spanish conversation. The woman led them to a table with a card on it – Reservado – and handed them both a menu card. Still a bit perplex about this, Greg was a few seconds slower than Mycroft in sitting down. 

Mycroft was silent as he looked over the many dishes, and Greg couldn't help watching him. He already knew what he wanted, anyway. No need to waste time staring at Spanish words he didn't understand. 

In this light, his eyes seemed more blue than grey, and their wandering over the leathercased menu was graceful and slow but did make a little jump here and there. Greg wondered about the reason herefor but didn't ask – that would just be creepy. There was no way he was going to admit that he had been staring so intently. 

The same waitress came back and asked for orders. Mycroft looked at Greg who placed his order the first in English, then placed his own in Spanish. The woman smiled, took their menus and walked away on high heels that clicked against the hard stone floor. 

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. Greg admired the interior of the place. He hadn't been here before, odd enough. It was rather central in the city but hidden away behind old buildings. It was a bit like his own preferred place, but had a touch of modernity in the sense that it had wide windows and a high ceiling. The atmosphere was relaxed and comfortable and after a quick look on the other guests, it was clear that Greg's choice of clothing was perfectly normal. It was more Mycroft who, once more, was overdressed in his three piece suit and matching hat. 

It tickled something in Greg's mind. He couldn't place it – it was somewhere between lust and curiosity. Why did Mycroft dress like this? Clearly a business man, yes, but business men had casual clothes, too. Maybe Mycroft was simply more comfortable in formal attire? But in this heat... why didn't he at least take off his waistcoat? 

Meanwhile, Mycroft seemed fully occupied by looking out the window, the falling sun's rays hitting his eyes and turning them an icy grey. His hands were folded on the table, fingers average of length and thickness entwining with each other. His facial expression was open, bordering to blank, and his eyes set straight ahead but without the intensity of the observer. 

Greg cleared his throat and Mycroft instantly looked at him, eyebrows raising the tiniest bit. 

"So, why are you here?" Greg asked and smiled gently. "Business?" 

"No. Like you, I'm enjoying some time away from tedious responsibilities."

"But surely you can't still be in school?" Greg pointed out, a low snicker tickling his throat. Mycroft looked too old to be in school. Maybe university? 

Mycroft chuckled. It was a note lighter than when he talked but sounded odd, like he wasn't used to uttering that sort of sound. 

"Oh, no, if only. No, I'm simply away from my little brother. He can be incredibly tiresome at times, especially around summer when he has nothing to do." 

"How young is he?"

"Seven years younger than me, and don't fret," he added and held up a hand as Greg was about to interrupt him, "he is almost as smart as I, certainly enough to not burn down the house. That would be quite a mess, and he loathes cleaning."

"But wouldn't your parents make sure nothing happened?" A waitress exited the kitchen with two plates but it wasn't their order, and Greg looked back at Mycroft who was smiling tightly at him.

"I'm afraid not. Although they do like to assist us, I assure you we've learned most things by ourselves." 

Greg's eyebrows moved even tighter together. That was odd. Best not to comment on it, though. It wasn't his place to judge parents he didn't know. After all, he barely knew Mycroft. 

"Right, I see. That must have given rise to quite some scenarios," he instead said and couldn't help smile, the frown smoothing out as Mycroft's lips stretched wider. 

"You have no idea." 

The conversation ended there but the short silence afterwards didn't feel awkward. They had broken the ice, even if only by a small hole. Until their dinner arrived, neither of them spoke a word. It turned out that Mycroft had ordered a bottle of wine, and he gracefully poured some into both of their glasses, lips twitching vaguely in response to Greg's 'thank you'. 

Taking in his food, Greg was surprised to find that it tasted of a lot more than it had done at his favourite restaurant. He had noticed when their orders were carried out that a heavy aroma filled his nostrils and made his mouth water. Now, when he was eating it, it was so rich on taste and spices it was almost overwhelming. He could taste every little spice and ingredient perfectly but at just the right intensity, and it all blended together splendidly. 

"How's school going for you?" Mycroft asked after a while, staring right into Greg's face. He felt it heat a tiny bit. God, how did Mycroft do that? He was just looking but it felt so intense. Possibly his eye colour? 

"Fine, it's going pretty good. I'm almost done, it's my last year."

"I see." Something in his tone and smile suggested that he wasn't surprised. "As any other student, I suppose you're looking forward to the end?" 

"Yeah, I am," he grinned and dabbed his mouth with the napkin. "It's been bloody awful, y'know, with all the pressure and grades and all that."

"I'm sure. Lucky you for having parents that are so relatively relaxed about your grades." 

Greg's frown returned. How on Earth could Mycroft possibly know that? They hadn't talked about Greg's family or even his school work. He looked at the man in clear surprise and Mycroft just chuckled before taking a swig of his wine. 

"How did you know that? And how did you know today is my last day here?" he asked, narrowing his eyes but oddly enough not finding it creepy that Mycroft knew. Mycroft didn't seem like an evil man; it was okay for him to know, Greg didn't mind. 

"That is not of importance, Greg." He smiled softly and contrary to any other smile his lips had formed, this one reached all the way into his eyes. 

And Greg accepted this answer. 

They continued their peaceful conversation, and as the evening proceeded, it went from superficial and polite to more personal. It turned out that Mycroft had only had one serious partner throughout his life, and that this had ended in a disaster that had left him unable to engage in any other relationship. Hearing this, Greg's heart sank a bit in his chest, both out of compassion but also disappointment. It might just be that he, over time and as they learnt more about each other, had hoped they could maybe do something together. Maybe not exactly become partners – that was still way too soon – but go somewhere more personal and see where the evening led. Greg certainly wouldn't mind that. 

Yet, there were small things that confused him greatly. Occasionally, Mycroft would put his hand on the table a few centimeters from Greg's and smile at him in a way that made his heart jump. As he was confused about this, he let it pass and didn't think more of it. But then Mycroft began talking about his previous relationship, and he tapped his fingers lightly against the surface, as if he wanted Greg to know they were there. He kept eye contact, and the darker it got outside, the more intimate it felt. 

Greg had the chills. 

Mycroft's voice got darker and lower over the evening so Greg had to lean forward just a bit so he was certain he heard everything correctly. He wasn't wearing cologne, Greg noticed, but caught a whiff of whiskey mixed with a distinctive scent of masculinity. 

After dinner, they ordered dessert, and Greg another bottle of wine. He grinned at a momentarily surprised Mycroft before the tight – but looser – smile was back on his soft face. 

Waiting for the next dish, Greg told about himself and his previous relationships. Mycroft listened carefully, nodded here and there and sometimes questioned something he apparently didn't feel Greg had explained well enough. There was not a time when he seemed concerned about Greg's sexuality. 

"You've been mainly with women."

"Yeah."

"But you don't mind the thought of being with a man."

"Oh no," Greg agreed a bit too soon and half a second later felt himself blush. Mycroft smiled and folded his hands under his chin. 

"I mean-" Greg began but was interrupted when the waitress came with their plates. 

"No need to explain," Mycroft said, and Greg could have sworn he saw the shadow of a smirk but then it was gone. 

This time, the silence felt a bit more tense, and it frustrated Greg. He couldn't exactly place it, but there was something unsaid in the air. He wanted to explain to Mycroft that he hadn't had an actual relationship with a man, only one-night stands but the part that still longed to kiss him ordered Greg to stay quiet, afraid this little bit of information might put Mycroft off. If he was even considering... doing or saying anything more concerning the topic. 

Greg hoped he did. He wanted to know more of Mycroft's opinions and thoughts about this but he was anxious about seeming intrusive, and he really didn't want to scare Mycroft off. 

But what was he even doing? It was his last day here, and there were very, very slim chances of them ever meeting again. He might as well suggest they spend the night together, see where things went. It would just be that one time. No strings, no contact. No responsibilities. 

Unaware that he had been staring at his ice cream for a few minutes, he was almost violently pulled out of his thoughts – and sudden pictures that made him feel very hot – when Mycroft nudged his hand. 

"Greg? You've been awfully silent."

He shook his head and chuckled, looking up at Mycroft who was watching him with a partly concerned, partly amused expression. It was very odd. He looked down again, scooping up a spoonful of ice cream.

"Ah, I'm sorry. I was just thinking."

"I'm aware. And I also believe I can guess what."

His neck made an unpleasant sound at the speed with which Greg looked up again, feeling his heart beat faster again and his cheeks heat up. Mycroft smiled even wider, almost grinning.

"You haven't mentioned books a single time since we met here. In fact, you've barely shown interest in anything but me. Seeing as you've been staring at me quite a lot and that you're blushing quite profusely right now, I assume I'm very right when I say you are thinking about me and where this evening might lead."

Greg chuckled again, this time much lighter and more shaky, and his shirt suddenly seemed way too tight, even if the first two buttons were undone. He put down his napkin, holding it in a light grip that was still tight enough to hide the quivering of his fingers. 

"There is nothing to worry about, Greg. I must say I'm flattered and I know what you want but I don't think it would work out." 

Finding Mycroft's eyes, Greg saw that they had widened a bit – although that could be blamed on the lack of light – and were serious, despite the light tone. 

"I am not a man anyone should wish to be in a relationship with."

The way he said it... it was like he was talking business. Merely discussing the recent crisis on the stockmarket or something like that. 

"What if I don't want a relationship?" Greg asked after a long time in silence, still with the spoon in his hand. The ice cream started sliding off the sides and onto the plate. He had completely forgotten about that in the tension. 

Did he want a relationship? Did he just want to have Mycroft for the night? Was it simple lust that wanted to undress the man sitting opposite of him? Wanting to unbutton the waistcoat slowly, button by careful button, slide it off his body and work the shirt, too, the pants... 

He coughed and looked away from Mycroft, having a feeling that the man could read his thoughts. 

"Then I don't see any reason you should be this nervous."

For a moment not believing what he had just heard, Greg kept his gaze at one of the waitresses. Then he looked back. His chest felt too tight for his heart and his throat was suddenly very dry. 

"Excuse me?" 

Mycroft looked tormented for a moment, like he didn't want to repeat his words, but pushed the expression away for one of gentleness. 

"You clearly desire me, and while I must say I am surprised, I am also flattered. I can't claim not to be interested in you as well, and if we're both clear on the rules, I don't see a problem with spending the night together. Your place, as you're the one leaving tomorrow."

Again, that businesslike tone...! But Mycroft's pupils were slightly dilated, and the grip on his own hands had tightened. He seemed... nervous. His gaze was firm, almost hard, yet there was a softness to his face that Greg adored. 

"You have never had a one-night stand, have you?" 

"No, I haven't. I only so rarely engage in conversations with others, and only so when I see a chance of an intellectual one. Never before have they led to this. It is all very intersting, in fact."

Greg couldn't help but burst out in a laughter at which Mycroft looked highly offended. Instinctively, Greg put a hand on top of his to calm him, and he could feel the other tense at the unexpected contact. He looked Mycroft in the eyes, adrenaline threatening to burst his veins. If Mycroft bothered, Greg was sure he could feel his hand tremble. 

It would actually happen. He would spend the night with this beautiful man, and there would be no strings or responsibilities. They would only enjoy each other without having to think or worry. 

"Get the waitress," he said, noting with annoyance that his voice was shaking. He pulled out his wallet as Mycroft waved over their waitress.

Walking to Greg's hotel, they showed different signs of nervousness. Greg was bouncy and skipped every third step or so. He would occasionally trip over his own feet but always regain balance before he actually fell. Then he grinned sheepishly and looked away from Mycroft who merely chuckled lowly. 

Mycroft himself was more composed and calm. He did walk a bit faster and with longer steps than usually but his hands were steady by his side and over the smooth metal of the cane. The snippets of his long jacket flapped lightly as a mild wind arose. 

Greg looked around as they went and saw people everywhere. Some of them were obviously couples, walking hand-in-hand and laughing together, leaning against one another, generally behaving very couple-ish. Mycroft focused more ahead and didn't spare many looks for the people around them. Once in a while, he smiled tightly at Greg who was acting very much like the stupid teenage boy he was. 

He felt a little embarrassed by this, but not enough to stop before they reached the front door of the hotel. 

Upon opening the door, Greg led them to his room. The hallways seemed nearly endless but were brightly lit. They saw no one else on their way. Maybe others were still out, or maybe they were already back from a night out. Either way, the hotel was very quiet and calm. A soft rustle of leaves could be heard from the open windows they passed. They walked with dull footsteps over the thick carpets and the only real sound was when Greg fished out the key to his room. 

Mycroft stood behind and waited patiently, feet firmly on the floor and hands on his back. When Greg opened the door, he swiftly went inside, and the door was closed with a soft click. 

Then they stood there. Looking at each other. Feeling the tension build and the awkwardness prick at their fingertips, pull up the small hairs in the back of the neck. 

Mycroft looked around the room, eyes sliding over every object and every painting, and Greg was suddenly all too aware of how messy it was. He hadn't bothered clean up yet – he would do that in the morning. 

But as Mycroft stood there, Greg noticed how the fingers on his left hand danced on his cane, and the fingers on his right made spider-like twitches. Even after he had seen everything in here, he kept looking away from Greg, even if there were times he could have sworn the icy blue eyes lingered on his shoulder. 

It hit Greg like a bus that he would be the one to start this all. Awkward as it was, it was he who had started it, after all. It was him who wanted Mycroft, and though it seemed to go both ways, he had been busted the first. 

He stepped closer to Mycroft and instantly got his attention. The piercing eyes rested on him, flickered to his hand as he took Mycroft's right. It was cold but the fingers stopped twitching after a while. Despite still being tense and nervous, Greg smiled up at Mycroft, and it was only now that he realized just how much taller Mycroft was. 

Greg wasn't good at talking during foreplay, or intercourse itself, for that matter, so he just stood there, smiling, and took Mycroft's other hand, warming them in his own. A light buzzing in his head reminded him that he had had a bit of alcohol tonight, but it was heavily overpowered by the adrenaline that came from knowing the course of this. 

It was no real surprise that Mycroft didn't look bored or relaxed even after several minutes. If anything, he was possibly growing more nervous than before. Greg was slightly confused – Mycroft had seemed pretty confident in the restauarant, out among people, so why would he be shy, or even anxious, when it was only Greg who could see him? 

"This is okay." He had intended to be louder but it came out as just a whisper. Mycroft's tense face relaxed a bit and his lips attempted a smile, then he nodded. Greg smiled wider and, with a heart beating fast than a cheetah could run, leaned up for a kiss, eyes focusing solely on Mycroft's. 

As predicted, Mycroft's lips were dry and cold, tasted mildly of wine and did absolutely nothing to greet Greg. They felt insecure and tight, denied him access. 

It felt odd to kiss someone who didn't respond immediately – where lack of response wasn't teasing, at least – so Greg quickly began using his hands to comfort Mycroft. He left them run up the soft waistcoat, a finger here and there slipping under and stroking the shirt, massage the skin, and he could litereally feel Mycroft relax under his fingers. 

A smirk formed on his lips, and he could feel it was the same for Mycroft as well. Maybe not as much a smirk as it was a smile, a soft one that showed trust, just a little bit. The tenseness vanished second by slow second, and pangs of electricity travelled up Greg's spine. 

The more relaxed and soft Mycroft became, the more Greg longed for him, and at one point he intensified the kissing. Mycroft made a small noise and immediately pulled away. His cheeks were dark red and his eyes once more avoidant of direct contact with Greg's. 

Greg just chuckled and stroked Mycroft's hands before slipping a hand around his waist and pulling him slightly closer. At first, Mycroft tensed a bit, and Greg had almost let go go again when he felt a hand on his back. The fingers were spread out and pressing against him, as if to keep him there. 

"Please do keep going."

Despite the ever formal tone, Mycroft's voice had gotten significantly deeper. It sounded more like a deep rumble from his chest, powered by his well-defined throat and strong jaws. 

Greg smiled before giving a polite "With pleasure". He proceeded to open the waistcoat, fueled on by his quickly growing desire. As it landed on the floor, Greg began working on the shirt, quivering fingers popping open button after button while he could feel Mycroft's hand stroke his back in delicate circles. It made his skin erupt in goose bumps and he couldn't fight off a smile. 

But when the shirt was opened all the way and Greg was about to smoothly slide it off, Mycroft stopped him, his face taking an expression of nervousness.

"I would appreciate it if I could keep this on," he mumbled. Confused but not about to risk a night of intimacy with Mycroft over a shirt, Greg just nodded and sent him a soft smile before leaning up to kiss him again. 

The pants were a lot easier to get off. They fell immediately when the belt was unbuckled and the zipper pulled down. 

Mycroft stepped out of them and toed off his shoes without missing a beat, lips firmly and more greedily attached to Greg's. Greg's heart was racing and his mind buzzing, a bit hazy but just enough to be pleasant and make a comfortable warmth spread in his body. Mycroft's lips were heating up as well, smooth and easily sliding against his own, managing to pull small noises and huffed breaths from him without even trying. 

God, what would it be like if Mycroft actually gave it a hundred per cent? 

Somehow, they managed to move onto the bed, Greg pushing Mycroft down onto his back. It didn't pass him that this elicited a small moan from the taller man, amd he smirked into the kiss. 

At this point, Greg was already very aroused but as his hands roamed over Mycroft's fuzzy chest, felt the skin tremble just so on his soft stomach, reached the navel and felt the muscles contract in delight and anticipation, it only increased. 

He reached Mycroft's crotch, only a soft touch, and he relished in Mycroft's sudden intake of air and the way his Adam's apple bobbed. 

Greg smirked and turned up the pressure, feeling the already half-hard cock twitch lightly, before giving it slow strokes through the boxers. Mycroft was almost panting and his hands were at his sides, occasionally reaching up to stroke Greg's cheek or neck. 

Even if it would be fun to tease for a while longer, Greg was very aroused and he was eager to find out what Mycroft could do. He therefore went on and managed to get the boxers off and worked on his own clothes upon realizing he was still fully dressed. 

Mycroft rose from the bed into a sitting position to assist him, cheeks dusted a beautiful pink and his slicked-back hair already becoming a bit undone. His fingers were quick and effective despite a slight tremble, and the shirt was soon gone and forgotten on the floor. For a moment, he hesitated with fingers lightly pressed against Greg's chest, then he pushed and switched their positions, making Greg chuckle.

Mycroft towered up above him but was far from threatening. There was somthing chilling, exciting, about this feeling of being trapped against the warm matress and having his soul pierced by Mycroft's scrutinizing gaze. 

He leaned down to kiss Greg with burning passion and an underlying lust, ferocity, that made Greg moan and close his eyes. Their lips worked against each other, slipping and sliding, tightening and relaxing in a rhythm they both seemed to know. 

Greg touched Mycroft's face gently, stroked his cheeks and sharp chin, took him in before wandering on to his neck with the throbbing pulse, his shoulders that moved with the hands working on Greg's pants. Both pair of hands roamed over the other's body, exploring in the dark, and it was wonderful. 

The pants were removed, and so were the boxers, and Greg was completely naked on the bed, smiling up at Mycroft when he drew back. 

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then Greg's hand was sneaking it's way down Mycroft's boxers, wrapping around his now fully erect cock and giving it a few teasing strokes which had him moan quite loudly before biting his lips hard. 

"No, please," Greg whispered, his own cock twitching in delight from Mycroft's sound, eyes wide and expectant, "be free."

"It's rather embarrassing. I would prefer not to make those kinds of sounds."

"Come on," Greg teased and continued, grinning when Mycroft produced a strangled noise in his efforts of keeping quiet. "There's no reason to be ashamed."

But that didn't change anything. Mycroft kept quiet, or at least tried to, even as they once more changed positions and Greg went down on him. Even when his cock was in Greg's mouth, he didn't say a thing. He covered his mouth with one hand, the other tight in soft hair. 

Greg's heart was beating fiercely in his chest, blood rushing through his veins along with a great deal of adrenaline, and though it was hard to breathe with his mouth so well occupied, he managed to get enough air into his lungs through his nose. That didn't stop him from feeling dizzy, though. His head was spinning from the excitement and wine. The hand in his hair was taut, fingers twirling the strands and pulling, just enough to add a painful tingle that had Greg moaning.

Whether it was the resulting vibrations or the action itself that made Mycroft's breath hitch in his throat, it was delicious, and Greg repeated it until he could feel the cock harden, tighten. He prepared himself, oddly excited about really tasting Mycroft, but the hand in his hair pulled harder, attempting to drag him away. 

"Greg," Mycroft croaked, a desperate undertone in his voice, but Greg didn't let him continue. He instead took Mycroft's unoccupied hand and guided it to his own cock, almost whimpering when it, almost automatically, began pumping in earnest. God, that hand knew a few things!

The moment Mycroft came, it was with a long, deep grunt and teethmarks on the hand that had left Greg' head. Greg sucked hard and shivered with intense pleasure when the warm fluid filled his mouth and he swallowed. He kept the cock in his mouth for a few seconds, sucking and licking it until he finally let it slide out. 

He looked at Mycroft and was thrilled to see his cheeks deep red and his chest heaving. The time he had to look was short, though, for with Mycroft's surprisingly skilled hands, it took only a few more seconds sto send him over the edge. Greg came with a loud groan and his head hanging forward, the hand only slowing down when he began wincing from overstimulation. 

Greg lied down beside Mycroft who had closed his eyes but now opened them again. It was hard to see in the missing light, but Greg could have sworn they were sparkling, even if just a little. 

Regaining his breath, he smiled widely at him and stroked his cheek fondly, contemplating the taste in his mouth. Salt and sour. Not outright bad, and he wouldn't mind doing it again, but it would take some time getting used to. 

Not that he would have that time with Mycroft. At this thought, his smile diminished a bit. 

They didn't say anything for a while. Mycroft was the one to break the silence with a "That was... very enjoyable. You'd better get some sleep now, Greg, so your journey home won't be too hard on you."

While Greg knew he was absolutely right, he didn't exactly want to go to sleep. He knew that Mycroft would be gone by the time he woke up, and despite the initial idea, he now wanted to at least stay in touch. Talk with him every once in a while, maybe go to a pub together or something. How ridiculous of him. 

"Yeah, you're right," he mumbled and yawned, stretching before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. 

It took him a few times to stand up straight, exhaustion working its way through his body. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash himself off. He tried to hear if Mycroft would be picking up his clothes and folding them neatly on the desk or the drawer or something, but didn't hear a thing. 

Once done and freshly washed, he trotted back and found Mycroft in the process of changing the bed sheets. Or, pulling them off, seeing as they didn't have an extra set and it was most definitely too late to consult the reception and ask for more. 

Greg grinned at Mycroft who had had the dignity of putting his boxers back on. 

"Well," he said when he noticed Greg's amused grin. He ran a hand – the clean one – through his hair and looked from the bed to Greg, as if seeing a direct connection. 

"You ought to shower." He pointed at Mycroft's sticky hand and the bundle of sheets on the floor. Mycroft nodded but looked almost pained for a moment. 

"If you'll excuse me."

"Of course," Greg said, smiling, and gestured towards the bathroom. Mycroft went in and closed and locked the door. Only seconds later, the water began running. 

Greg sat on the now sheet-less bed and put his head in his hands. This was not good. Really not good. But there was nothing to be done. He would go to sleep with someone and wake up alone. That was how it was going to be, and even now, when the effect of the alcohol was subsiding, he would still wish he could talk with Mycroft afterwards. 

Oh well. That was the entire point of summer romance, wasn't it? Be together for a short period of time but without the close and long-lasting connection. 

He slipped on his boxers and pajamas pants and laid back on the bed, waiting for Mycroft to descend from the bathroom.


	3. Chapter 3

When Greg woke up, it was to the sound of birds chirping carried into his room by the wind through an open window.

Disoriented, he sat up and realized he was freezing. He then noticed a mild, but persistent throbbing in his head. The third thing to – momentarily – surprise him was that there were no sheets on the bed. Nor was there any duvet. There were only two pillows and a small card.

Groaning and with a hand to his head, as if that would soothe the pain, he picked up the card and read it. Only then did the previous night come back to his memory with the power of a raging thunderstorm.

He instantly looked around with the pathetic hope that maybe Mycroft was still in the room. But of course he wasn't. Greg was alone in here, and the bathroom was empty as well. For a few minutes, he looked at the card. It was one of the hotel's business cards, the front decorated with name, address, phone and fax number, e-mail address and website, all in Spanish.

The back was empty save for a few lines of English, written in neat italic.

_I apologize for not being there this morning. I assumed it would be harder on you that way. Now you can leave with no worries or regrets. I hope you have had a nice and relaxing vacation. Good luck with school and getting into the police force._

On one hand, Greg was beating himself up on the inside for letting this opportunity slip. On the other, he was utterly confused as to _how_ Mycroft knew all these things about him. _How_ did he know it had been Greg's last day, _how_ did he know Greg's parents weren't very strict with his grades, and _how on Earth_ did he know that Greg wanted to join the police force? He had only found out himself a few months ago!

He sneaked the card into his wallet and packed his suitcase. The sheets were left on the floor in a messy bundle, and he trew a few Euros on the desk as tips. He had no idea how much it was but he figured it was generous enough.

It was with a heavy heart that he went to the reception and checked out. A surprise awaited him, though – his stay had already been paid. The reception hadn't been given a name but Greg had a feeling it was superfluous. A man that didn't want to leave clues, was rich and had paid for his stay? That could only have been Mycroft.

This little detail brought a wide smile to his face and his heart beated happily. Oh, Mycroft. Ever the polite gentlemen.

Greg left the hotel with his suitcase in one hand and camera in the other – it was now or never if he saw something really cool he wanted to take a picture of. He had taken a lot over the past weeks and he wasn't about to stop now!

Seeing as he had spent a rather long time in Spain, he had learned a little bit of Spanish, meaning that he wasn't completely lost anymore. He could make very basic conversation and read some of the signs. He could order tickets in various means of transport, and he could explain if he had problem. Sort of. Depending on the complexity of it.

Greg got to the airport a few hours before his plane departed. Plenty of time to make sure he hadn't missed anything.

And by God, had he had a great vacation! He actually felt almost ready to go back to school, and he knew how rare _that_ feeling was! He was relaxed and comfortable, and he was practically unable to stop smiling.

That is, until he caught sight of a man in a three-piece suit standing by the gate to the plane departing to America. He had a hat, too, no cane. But he reminded Greg of Mycroft, and the way his heart sank was so painful he might as well be having a heart attack. The way he had almost pranced over to him on their first meeting. The way he held the cutlery, his back. The way he talked. Fast but not fast enough to be confusing or lose the conversation partner, articulated. He was eloquent.

And a bloody good kisser.

But that was not something to dwell on now. It would make him both giggly and sad, and that was not a good mood to be in right now. If anything, he should be happy because it happened, not sad because it was over.

Finally, he could board his plane. He was tired by now, the kind of tired you get when you just want to go home, and it can't come soon enough. Luckily for him and his reputation as a civilised man, there were no screaming kids on the plane. It was quiet and nice, and he managed to get a few hours of sleep.

When they landed and could leave their seats, Greg was slightly disoriented and almost stumbled down the stairs. He heard one of the stewardesses giggle and smiled to himself, hitching up his suitcase and trying to put on his jacket at the same. He was unsuccesful.

After an agonizingly slow ride back home, he was ready to unpack. He would prefer to just go straight to bed but he had to put his clothes for washing, find the souvenirs, recharge his camera, and a lot of other things to do.

So he began. It took unnecessaarily long time because he groaned in frustation and hung around in the couch and chairs whenever he passed them, and in the end, he decided he might as well just give it up. If he continued, he would probably end up putting the camera in the freezer.

Right now, he was kind of glad his parents weren't home, to be honest. Greg was in no state to answer questions about his vacation or tell about it in the great details it deserved.

Checking that he wouldn't mess up his schedule too bad, he brushed his teeth and went to bed, his mind whirling with impressions, words, thoughts, ideas and everything else. He would certainly need to talk about this vacation, a lot, and it would be so nice.

The next few days he spent making sure he was ready for school, watching countless movies and series and calling his parents. The conversation took forever and his phone was practically glowing when they were done. But they were good. His parents were good, and very happy for his call. They might not have wanted to interfere with his vacation but they had grown a tad anxious over time when there were no signs of life.

Greg apologized for this and everything was well again. Of course there also came a point where they wanted to know if Greg had found someone special, and he could practically _hear_ the smirk on his mother's face. With heated cheeks he answered that although he had met many interesting persons – "Mycroft" echoed the loudest in his head – he hadn't gotten a partner. It didn't sound like they believed him but they didn't argue. Too much. Finally, the phone call ended. Greg was smiling like an idiot when he once again lied down on the couch and resumed the movie.

Mycroft, though, was still on his mind.

* * *

 

When the school started again, the other students were eager to hear details. Greg hadn't been updating his facebook, nor had he been checking mails. He had more or less cut off himself from the rest of the world completely, focussing only on having a great time in a new place.

He gave them all the details they wanted. Except when it came to Mycroft – he didn't mention him. He instead told that he had spent the last evening on the beach, relaxing and just sipping drinks and eventually going back to his hotel to consume his last Spanish meal, then go to his room to pack and go to bed.

It was around noon when his class took their seats for English class. He was chatting with Simon – who had begun seeing a psychologist to deal with his stress – when the teacher entered the room and ordered them to quiet down. They did.

"Welcome back," she said in her cheerful and light voice, smiling widely and perfectly dressed for the British summer. "I hope you've had a lovely vacation, and that you are once more ready to be whipped by the demands of society and the 'importance'," she made quoatation signs, and the class laughed, "of grades. We have a new student with us today. He's a bit shy so please be nice to him. If you would please come in, Sherlock."

The entire class had been a bit confused to hear that there was a new student, but that no one was with her. Then the door opened, and a boy entered.

He was tall, pretty pale and his hair that was black as the night and curly almost entirely framed his face. A leather jacket was slung over his shoulder, close to carelessly, and his long, slender legs were clad in tight jeans. He wore a loose T-shirt with the motif of a giant dog.

The room was dead silent as he looked around, and Greg was sure he would hear the gears turn in the others' heads – what did they think of this teenage boy who looked like he owned the room, even as he had only just entered? They would probably hate him, he seemed arrogant. The kind of guy who would throw back a snarky remark, hurting you, but probably without realizing it.

Greg decided he would wait and see if Sherlock gave him any reason for hatred. Until then, he would treat him with respect and dignity, like any man deserved.

"Do you want to tell a little about yourself?" the teacher asked, and Sherlock shook his head, instead fastening his gaze at Simon.

"No, but I think he might," he answered, pointing at Simon who went pale, and his fingers began shaking. Greg looked from him to Sherlock, squinting lightly. If it wasn't because Simon this very morning had told him he had begun going to a psychologist, he would be absolutely confused.

The teacher looked surprised, then worried, and turned her head to look at Simon while Sherlock slid through the room and sat down beside Greg.

He was silent and just waited for the class to start while Simon informed them of his choice in regards to seeing a psychologist and asked them to show respect and understanding. Greg noticed that Sherlock was staring at his hands, folding them and entwining his fingers. They were long and bony. He bet they would be good at a piano, perhaps handling a violin very well.

And then class started. They began pretty mildly, as they had just returned, and their teacher was kind and understood that they would need time to get their brain into the right gear. Everybody was happy about this, except Sherlock. He didn't sigh and groan, but he looked annoyed.

So for now, they would just tell about their vacations, and then they were handed a sheet with words the teacher didn't expect them to know. She asked them to look them up and create sentences with them.

Greg didn't have too much trouble – he was pretty good at English and knew a majority of the words on the paper. It was therefore pretty quickly over for him but he noticed that Sherlock didn't do anything. At all.

He didn't look up the words, he didn't write any sentences. He isntead searched for the oddest things on his laptop, like 'how to get away with murder' and 'how to get rid of blood stains'. Combined, that made for a very bizarre search, and Greg wondered if perhaps he was a writer.

"Do you write?" he asked, covered by his classmates discussing the words. Sherlock didn't look up until Greg nudged his hand and asked him again. Then he looked confused for quarter of a second before answering.

"No. Writing is pointless and gives you a fake sense of having achieved something other people would find temporary pleasure in."

Greg blinked. Well, that was a bit harsh.

"Then why do you search those things?"

"Because I want to know how to change a tire."

"There's no need to be rude," Greg began but Sherlock shook his head and didn't answer any further questions.

Greg didn't bother him for the rest of the class but he wasn't definite angry at Sherlock. Maybe he was just annoyed at going back to school, and especially since it was a new one. Greg would need more time to form a proper opinion about Sherlock.

As class ended, the teacher asked some of the students about their sentences. Sherlock was chosen as one of the firsts, of course only if he wanted to, but he showed no signs of nervousness or reluctance. He immediately created a sentence with one of the hardest words on the list, without trouble pronouncing it correctly and in a perfect context.

This took everyone by surprise, and the teacher asked if he knew the meaning of another word. He did. He created a sentence with it and proceeded to define it, perfectly. His voice was deep but not as deep as Greg had expected, and he sounded bored. Like this was below his standards and he actually just wanted to get out of here.

After this, the other students read their sentences aloud and were praised. Sherlock looked completely unmoved by it and simply began packing when the bell rang. He was the first to leave.

Greg tried to run after him, feeling there was something familiar about the boy. If it was the way he talked, his accent, the deep rumble when he muttered something under his breath that he didn't want others to hear, or whatever it was. But Sherlock was nowhere to be found once Greg was out of the classroom. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.

So Greg went to sit with Simon and Vicky, as he used to. It was fun, they talked about a lot of things and especially Greg's vacation, and they also talked about Sherlock. Vicky was clearly of the impression that he was rude, and she made it clear she would hate to work with him, even if he might be intelligent. Simon, on the other hand, was more accepting. He pointed out that it might be hard for him to get used to new people, new rooms and new surroundings altogether. Vicky was not convinced.

But Greg agreed with Simon – he would give Sherlock another chance. It was not fair to judge him on the first day. Many things could, and mostly _would_ , go wrong on the first day in a new school.

The rest of the day was uneventful. Sherlock kept up his stoic appearance and didn't voluntarily talk to others. He only reluctantly accepted working in groups and when he did, he did most of the work, and surprisingly fast.

'Not normal,' was how students described him when the week was out. They didn't understand how he worked or his thought process, nor did they understand his lack of social skills.

Because Sherlock Holmes really wasn't good with others. There were times when he would receive compliments from the others – solely on the way he dressed, because he did have a good fashion sense – but he would just stand there, squint and walk away. Like he didn't believe the compliments for a second.

It was indeed not normal, but instead of dismissing him and not wanting to interact with him, Greg willingly sat next to him in classes and tried to chat him up every once in a while. It was no use, though – Sherlock continued to be cold and unapproachable. He didn't even try to be friendly; it was almost like he went for the opposite, create enemies.

But Greg refused to see him like that. He wanted Sherlock to feel accepted, and he had no idea why. There was just something about him that was really familiar. And it wasn't just his appearance or voice anymore – it was something deeper that tickled Greg's mind. There was definitely something about Sherlock that he knew.

He thought it might be Mycroft. They did act similar, in some ways, and he quickly noticed that Sherlock talked in the same way that Mycroft did. Aristocratic, bordering to snobbish. Greg wanted to ask Sherlock if he happened to know Mycroft but he figured it would be a weird thing to ask, especially if Sherlock wasn't familiar with him.

The weekend came, and Greg's parents were still not home. He had no idea where they were but as long as they had a good time, he wouldn't interrupt them, just as they had let him in peace when he had been out of the country. Besides, it would probably do them good to be a little bit alone.

But halfway through Saturday, Greg's phone went off. He was watching a movie, just about to doze, when it rang, and he fumbled for it. Private number.

With a frown, he answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Greg," said a very familiar voice. It sounded a bit weird, sort of cringed. Like the caller was smiling or otherwise having his lips in a weird position.

Greg froze in the couch, staring at the television screen but not seeing what exactly happened.

"Mycroft?" he finally croaked, and a mild laughter was heard from the other end.

"Yes, indeed. How odd, don't you think?"

"How the hell did you find my number? I didn't give it to you!"

"Indeed you didn't. I'd prefer for that little detail to remain a mystery to you." Oh, that little shit! Greg could clearly picture Mycroft'ss smirking face for him, although the smirk looked a bit out of place. Mycroft wasn't one to smile or smirk, or just make any sign of friendly face.

"Why are you calling me? What happened, are you okay?"

His heart began racing for indefinable reasons. They had agreed not to keep contact, had agreed they would only see each other that night, and that would be the end of it. Why was Mycroft doing this? Was there something wrong with him? And if so, why would he want Greg to know? They had only known each other for five hours, top.

"There's nothing to worry about. I am perfectly fine." A high note could be heard form Mycroft's phone, then a low growl that did unholy things to Greg. Lucky for him that Mycroft couldn't see his reaction.

"So what is this all about?"

The following silence was only a few seconds long but Greg somehow got the impression that Mycroft was nervous about something, and that automatically made him nervous as well. How stupid this all was!

"I have some things to clear up with you."

Greg's heart skipped a beat. He instantly thought back on their conversation in the restaurant. Mycroft saying that he wasn't a man anyone should wish a relationship with. Yet his tone was soft and calm, almost friendly. No, certainly friendly. As friendly as Mycroft could manage. But as he had said that before, what could he possibly wish to 'clear up' now?

"Did I do something wrong? Did I accidentally insult you or something?"

A clearly sarcastic laughter came from Mycroft's end, and Greg frowned.

"No, no, not at all. Or, that depends entirely on what you consider 'wrong'. I find myself strangely attracted to you, Gregory."

_How?_ Greg hadn't told him his full name!

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Mycroft was attracted to him. Mycroft, a gorgeous man with a mysterious but endearing personality. Attracted to him, Greg, who was a simple teenage boy with a wish to join the police force.

"I beg your pardon?" But Mycroft, apparently, wasn't in the mood to repeat his words.

"I wish to engage in a relationship with you, Gregory. You are a most charming and attractive man, and I would be delighted to know you are mine."

Greg blinked, perplexed. Well, he had never heard that kind of proposal. No one had asked him, actually, but that was a minor detail. He had always been the one to ask. And this, coming from Mycroft, with that blasted business tone... did he even mean it?

A part of Greg knew that he did. Mycroft was not the type of person to get into relationships; he had said that, and Greg could clearly understand why. He seemed like the kind of person who would think relationships ridiculous, waste of time and, most importantly, _weak_. So why, indeed, was Greg the one to awake such desires in Mycroft?

It was exciting as well as it was ominous. But mostly exciting.

Greg could feel the small hair in the back of his neck rise and his skin cover up in goose bumps. His throat went dry and he had to cough before regaining the use of his vocal chord.

"That is... that's great."

"...Really?" The insecurity and sudden decrease in volume made Greg smile vaguely. He might be happy but Mycroft seemed more anxious than joyous.

"Of course. You're a great guy and I would love to hang out with you and be your partner."

"I thought you didn't wish a relationship with me."

Greg chuckled loudly and pushed a hand through his hair.

"I might or might not have revised my wishes since then," Greg lied, fumbling with a hole in his pajama pants. Mycroft didn't respond to that immediately.

"Then I assume that is settled."

"Yeah, it is." A wave of excitement flooded Greg's body and he couldn't sit still anymore. He got up from the couch and paced the room.

God, was this really happening? He was actually together with Mycroft now. He checked his watch and made a mental note to write the date and time down, just for good measurements.

"So, when will I see you?" was the next obvious question that Greg asked.

"I had hoped you wouldn't ask that exact question," Mycroft muttered, causing Greg to frown again. Why not? It was only natural for lovers to see each other. At least in the relationships that he had had so far. Maybe it would be different with Mycroft?

Who was he kidding, of course it would be different with him. Mycroft was far from the type that Greg would usually fall for. There was just something about him. He couldn't exactly put his finger on it, but it had to be something about his mysterious person. Mycroft knew a lot of things even if he hadn't been told it, and he was distanced and careful in everything he spoke. He didn't say anything unless he mean it. Really meant it.

"I don't know," he continued and Greg could hear him getting up from a leather chair. "I'm quite busy at the moment, I must confess, and I happen to live quite a bit from you. I assume we could work something out on holidays."

"There won't be another holiday before autumn!" Greg protested, going through his mental calendar.

"Is that really so?"

"Yes!" Greg was getting annoyed, and also disappointed. He had been so excited, thinking he would see Mycroft again soon, and then he went and said this kind of bullshit!

Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Are you tortuing me on purpose?"

 "No!" It was loud and almost immediate, and that was enough to reassure Greg. Mycroft was not deliberately trying to hurt him or use him. Unless he was acting really good, but he didn't want to think about.

"I would not do that, Gregory. When I engage in this relationship, I assure you I only wish the best for you. But I don't know how, seeing as I have only ever been in one."

Greg was still not too happy. It was not fair of Mycroft to say such a thing now...!

"I will get back to you as soon as possible. I have to go now, but it is nice to know that you feel the same that I feel for you."

They said goodbye and hung up, and Greg slumped back in the couch with his hands covering the lower half of his face. Who knew where this would go?

But Mycroft... it was Mycroft! Greg smiled vaguely to himself behind the hands. He was pretty sure that Mycroft could turn out to be any kind of man, and he would still accept him. This would be very exciting, and very worth-while, indeed.

His stomach felt funny. It was light, yet churning, and he felt giddy, suddenly burst out laughing. God, was he twelve again?!

Eventually, he calmed down again and turned off the TV. He needed a cold shower, he decided, and then he would do his homework.

* * *

 

It turned Wednesday before his parents returned. It was wonderful to see them again, and they had so much to talk about, and it was all just very, very nice. Greg listened and responded as expected of him, desperately wanting to tell them about Mycroft and what they had decided.

But something held him back. How should he explain this? It was a relationship, yes, but they clearly wouldn't be seeing each other often. Maybe once a month or so. Nothing was sure, and they had only met twice. Perhaps his parents would look down at him for engaging in that kind of relationship?

He didn't want them to think he was desperate or anything but he also wanted to tell them, because he was excited! He wanted them to know he had found someone he could maybe have something with.

In the end, he didn't say anything. He figured they might think badly of him, and he didn't want that, especially not since they had given him the money to take the vacation where he had met Mycroft.

After a good, long talk about their vacations and his parent's job, they saw each others' pictures. It took a long time since his parents were masters of photography when they went somewhere, and Greg hadn' been lazy, either.

After that, his parents unpacked and went to bed. Greg followed their example, despite the early hour


	4. Chapter 4

"Do you have any siblings?"

It was Thursday, and Greg had, quite exceptionally, been given permission to sit beside Sherlock in the canteen. The boy wasn't eating but instead read an old book by an author that Greg didn't even know how to pronounce.

"I have a brother, yes."

"What is his name?"

Sherlock sent him an annoyed look, clearly of the opinion that the antique book was more important than any blood relative.

"Mycroft. Why?"

"I happen to know him."

A flicker of surprise went over Sherlock's face, showing in the quirk of an eyebrow.

"How unfortunate for you."

Greg frowned. Whatever it was, it seemed the two brothers didn't get along very well. Perhaps they competed in something? A stupid brotherly feud that neither of them wanted to lose in. Very common, and very ridiculous.

"He's not that bad, Sherlock, I-"

"Wait a few weeks and you will realize just how boring and predictable he is," Sherlock said and turned a page in his book, not sparing Greg more attention than strictly necessary.

"He never does anything unless he has to. My _dear_ brother would be one of those ridiculous boys who lock themselves in their room and don't come out unless their mom calls for them, if he was anywhere near normal."

"Are you trying to convince me not to see him again?"

"Why, is there any reason to?" Here, Sherlock actually looked up over the edge of the book, eyes just as piercing and clear as his brother's, only the colour different. Greg's eyebrows knotted together a tad harder, trying to cover for the annoyance he felt.

"No, why should there?"

Sherlock looked him over a few seconds longer before letting his eyes fall back on the old pages.

"No reason. Just remember that he's rubbish at relationships, be they friendly or... otherwise. Not that he's any good with people in general."

"Oh, for God's sake, like you're any better!" Greg exclaimed and walked away from Sherlock's table, very well aware that people, including Sherlock, were looking.

He spent the rest of the day _not_ talking to Sherlock. And, it might be his mind playing him a trick, 

but the boy more down than usually after their little incident in the canteen. Greg wondered briefly if he had actually hurt the boy. But his annoyance was bigger than his solicitude, so he left school without apologizing.

When he got home, a box awaited him on the door step. It was addressed to him and was rather light. There was no sender on it. Wondering what it could be, and from who, Greg unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and moving to the kitchen where he opened the box.

It turned out to be a book. An old book, no less, that he actually wanted for quite a while. With excitement beating in his throat, he turned it around, but there was nothing that revealed who it could be from. It was all too easy to figure out, though. Only one person could possibly know about his fondness of books, and from there deduce what kind of books he liked.

He was about to find his phone, but then realized that he didn't know Mycroft's number. He had called with private number, so Greg couldn't call back. He didn't know where Mycroft lived, so he couldn't even send him a 'thank you'-letter.

Greg would have loved to send him a little thing, just to show that he appreciated the book and the thought that was put into it. It couldn't have been easy to find – it was very old and very controversial.

* * *

 

This continued for a while. Mycroft sent him all sort of things – more books, carefully wrapped flowers, even a cake once, small letters and everything in between. He was a really sweet guy, way sweeter and romantic than Greg would ever have thought from their meeting in Nerja. He had had no idea what awaited him when he said 'yes' to be in a relationship with Mycroft but definitely not this. It completely interfered with everything that Sherlock had revealed about his brother so far.

Sherlock had said that his brother was 'distant', 'dismissive' and 'indifferent towards people', not to mention 'cold' and 'unable to sustain long relationship, whether friendly or romantic' and to the last one he had added 'I actually doubt he has ever been with anyone, ever'.

All of this were things that Greg couldn't recognize in the Mycroft he believed he knew. He had been treated so well, he couldn't believe that they were talking about the same Mycroft.

If he really _was_ like Sherlock said, it meant that he was currently toying with Greg. The thought made him nervous, and he awaited Mycroft's next call with anxiety rising to impossible heights in his chest. He really didn't want Sherlock to be right about this, even if it was usually a delight.

Sherlock was fantastic to work with in school. He always knew the correct answer, except when they were working with poetry or anything remotely related to emotions and sentimentality. Then he was close to clueless. It was rather odd, really, but Greg didn't mind.

He was one of the only persons who didn't mind pairing up with Sherlock. Anyone else would groan and ask the teacher for a new partner but Greg had learned how to handle Sherlock by now. It wasn't that hard, actually – you just had to accept his answer as correct and not ask too many questions.

Greg never told anyone about his relationship with Mycroft. It was weird. What were they even _doing_? They hadn't exchanged a single kiss since the night in Nerja, they hadn't even _seen_ each other. Yet they were together, just not officially. Greg hadn't fiddled with his civil status on facebook because he didn't want people to ask who 'the lucky one' was, or how they had met.

He wasn't even sure Mycroft had facebook. It was a hard secret to keep because he wanted to tell people about it, and he wanted them to know he was in love. But he didn't want them to know with who, because how would they react? A man he had only met twice, and only seen for a combined period of approximately five hours, in which they had kissed, blown and jacked each other off, and now it seemed to only work over the phone.

What kind of relationship was that, anyway?

But Greg was faithful. He didn't date anyone else, nor did he make out with people the few times he was invited to parties. He wanted to remain true to Mycroft, even if they hadn't seen each other in almost half a year by now.

It was hard to believe that about four months had already passed. School wasn't easy but he had people to support him, and he was beginning to hang out with Sherlock who turned out to have a friend named John. They seemed pretty close but on a friendly level.

There was one time when Sherlock handed Greg an envelope and then left, without a word and without a clue as to what the envelope contained. Greg opened it with a vague smile playing across his lips, but when he saw the letter, his jaws dropped.

It was an invitation. Very polite and very formal, but behind all that Greg realized he was being asked to spend the weekend at Sherlock's place, in his and John's company. It would only be those three, and they would primarily be watching movies, it seemed. Horror movies. With lots of blood and murders. Sherlock had even attached a list of movies he thought interesting. Greg would certainly have to decline on a few of them because they were simply not his thing.

Nothing interesting happened that weekend except his stay with Sherlock. After introducing John – who was a bit smaller than Greg but with lush blond-gray hair and brown eyes – to Greg and Greg to John, Sherlock shooed them into the living room where a flatscreen TV waited, the first DVD already fed to the DVD-player. That one wasn't Saw, though. It was more like an old crime drama, and though Sherlock didn't seem terribly interested, Greg was positively glued to the screen, eyes reflecting the bright light.

John turned out to be a nice, social guy. He didn't say much about himself but seemed to enjoy talking about others, and he was eager to converse equally much with Sherlock and Greg. Sherlock wasn't, though, and it ended up with John talking mostly with Greg, especially when the first Saw-movie was put on. Luckily for him, Greg was interrupted halfway through by Mycroft. He excused himself and walked into the small kitchen.

"Do you consider yourself busy at the moment?"

"Nah, not really. We're watching Saw, which isn't really my thing. Why?" Greg asked and looked around. He could easily see into the living room which was actually pretty cool, with vinyl records on the walls and soft carpets covering the floor. There was a skull on the mantelpiece, though. That was weird.

"Yes, my brother seems to have a taste for the gruesome, doesn't he? Anyway, I called to ask you something."

And that something turned out to be very unlike Mycroft, and something Greg would never have expected from him. Certainly not a thing he would ever forget, either.

When he emegered from the bathroom about fifteen minutes later, his face was hot, his pulse racing and his mind full of pictures of Mycroft doing – and _saying_ – all sorts of things to him. Really, really not very Mycroft-y, but hell if he minded! It had been so hot, and definitely the best phone sex of his life.

Sherlock sent him a disgusted look while John just looked from one man to the other, clearly not understanding what had happened. Before Sherlock got to explain, Greg sent him a 'I will make your life unbearably miserable if you tell him' and Sherlock actually shot up, much to Greg's surprise but also great relief.

For the rest of the evening, Greg tried to forget Mycroft's words or the images that had been planted in his head. He didn't need that right now, not with Saw playing on the big TV. When it got time for bed, Greg was assigned to the floor while John got the couch and Sherlock slept in his bed.

It was awkward to wake up the next day on Sherlock's floor and Greg was slightly uncomfortable by the quiestioning looks that Sherlock kept sending him, so he ended up leaving the arrangement early. It might be a day too soon but Greg didn't care much. He excused himself by saying he had a lot of homework, and while John bought the lie raw, Sherlock was much more suspicious. It was impossibly relieving, though, that he didn't say anything. He just accepted Greg's little twist of the truth.

When he got home, Greg's parents were waiting in the kitchen. They had the typical 'we need to talk with you'-expressions and Greg was terrified for a few seconds before he saw the well-known letter on the table between them. Then his horror doubled. What could Mycroft have sent him that made his parents worry? Up until now, he had only sent sweet notes and letters, along with the other stuff.

Then it hit Greg – of course his parents would be suspicious sooner or later when he didn't say who it was from.

He hung his jacket on the peg and stepped into the kitchen, meeting his parents' judging stares. They asked him why he hadn't said anything, why he hadn't said he had an admirer, or maybe even a lover. It took a good few seconds for Greg to find the courage to answer.

It was just because he liked, even loved, Mycroft, and he didn't want to put either of them in trouble by saying they were in a relationship. But with the recent letters it would be impossible to miss. The discussion was calm and relaxed, even more so when it ended than when it started. Greg was determined not to reveal what he and Mycroft were doing, but he couldn't just say the things he got were from a friend. He twisted the truth a bit and made it sound like it was just someone from his class he was having a casual fling with.

This surprised his parents greatly, as Greg was not one for 'casual flings' but they accepted it without problems. They were just happy he had found someone to pour his affection onto, and they didn't question the form of their relationship.

This made Greg wonder if his mom or dad had ever done the same thing. He didn't ask, though, thinking that might be over the line. He would ask at a later time.

* * *

 

Before he knew of it, snow was falling onto the streets and covering bushes and lamps in a fine layer of powder. The cold descended once more, and people found their long winter coats from the backs of their closets. It was time for the gloves and hats again, and time to find the non-skid shoes.

It was a glorious time – Greg liked snow but he disliked the cold. Really unfortunate combination, that. It was so tedious to have to dress in special clothing to keep warm before he could walk outside.

In school, people were happy for the snow and would engage in snowball fights, as if they were still eight years old. Greg happily joined them from time to time.

One time, he stayed indoors to chat with Sherlock who looked thinner and paler than ever.

"Why don't you come out and join us?" Greg suggested, watching Sherlock tapping away on his laptop.

"I'm not welcome," he simply answered and edited a sentence so it fit better with what he wanted to say. His voice was as cold and hard as the snowball being whirled against the window.

"But... I want you out there. Come on, it could be fun!"

"No. I don't engage in childish activities such as throwing frozen water against one another. I'm not a child anymore, Gregory."

"How do you--- oh, never mind," Greg interrupted himself and studied Sherlock's computer screen closer. He was surprised to find the content of a social matter and not one of politics or science.

"You want to spend Christmas with John and I?"

Sherlock snapped the computer shut and began packing.

"Yes," he answered with an icy voice and stood up in his full height, looking down at Greg. "I hope you're not busy."

Something in his tone, even if if cold and hard, sounded begging to Greg's ear.

"What about your parents?"

"They'll be away."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock's scrutinizing glare took on a hint of disdain, yet something seemed to fall in his façade. It wasn't much, but certainly enough for Greg to accept a lack of answer.

"So you only have John and I?"

"If you must put it that way, yes," Sherlock snarled and looked away. He looked... almost hurt. Almost.

Greg slowly got up from his chair.

"Yeah, sure, it'd be fun. I'll try to convince my parents, anyway."

Sherlock's eyes lit up at that, even if only for a brief second. It was the happiest Greg had seen him in months, and it made his heart soar. It was so nice to see Sherlock smile with his eyes instead of his mouth for a change. It felt so much more genuine.

Then he left, leaving Greg to stand by his table with a vague grin on his face. It would be hard, though, to convince his parents to spend Christma _not_ with them. Especially since it was only a few days away.

He wasn't wrong. It turned to an outright argument that had his mom raise her voice, which was very unusual for her. She only did it when she was either frustrated or sad. Greg hated to see and hear her like that, and if it wasn't because Sherlock had looked so hopeful and possibly excited about the thought of having him and John over for Christmas, he wouldn't have made such a big deal out of it.

But if Sherlock was anything like Mycroft, then he needed to be more social. He would need company on such an important day, and it would most likely hurt him immensely if Greg didn't show up. He had almost promised, after all, and he was not one to break promises.

In the end, he ended up getting permission, even if they weren't happy with the arrangement. They made a deal that Greg was now _bound_ to be with them next Christmas, to which he agreed instantly. He loved spending Christmas with his parents and grandparents, and he made it absolutely clear that this was only because of Sherlock, only because Sherlock had looked hopeful for a brief second.

After thanking his parents by the dozen, Greg texted Sherlock the happy news. He immediately received a "Thank you. -SH", chuckling to himself as he went to his room. Sherlock's way of signing his texts was odd but in a sense fitting for him. He never wrote anything but the most necessary, and always ended it with his initials.

Greg spent the rest of the day making up to his parents. He cooked, did the dishes and cleaned the house, even tidied his room. They were happy for this, and it seemed they were now even, much to Greg's relief.

Now he would have to buy find something for Sherlock, though. He wasn't so sure if he should get John anything – they didn't really know each other but he was a nice guy. A small thing would probably be okay. Not too expensive but not something that just screamed 'I bought something just to make sure you wouldn't be mad at me', either.

For Sherlock, he knew what would be appropriate – a book on murder and murderers. Something about getting away with it, if he could find such a book, though he doubted the possibility of this.

Greg therefore went to the local bookstore the next day, struggling through the snow and being careful not to slip. The shop assistents couldn't help him with his wish and looked a bit weirded out. Greg quickly explained that it was for a friend, not himself, but this didn't help at all. So he had to look through the titles himself, and though it took him almost an hour, a very sore neck and a lot of flapping through useless books, he found one that sounded good enough.

After that, Greg tried to find something that John would enjoy. He had briefly mentioned that he liked reading before bedtime. This time it was much easier. Greg pulled down a book about military life, a touching account from a former soldier.

He bought both books and went home to wrap them. The presents for his parents and grandparents were already bought, wrapped and put in a plastic bag, ready to take to his grandparents' house. Among them were some souvenirs from Nerja but also things that they actually wanted.

On the last day of school before Christmas, everyone were delirious and could barely contain themselves. Sherlock was the only exception. When the others hugged each other goodbye and wished a merry Christmas and happy New Year, he stood by the door and waited to leave. He looked tortured, with his tightly clenched hands and hard gaze, lips pressed together to a thin, thin line on his face.

Greg was the only who actually said goodbye to him.

He smiled widely as he clapped Sherlock's shoulder lightly. He remembered Mycroft saying hugging made him uncomfortable, and Greg figured that Sherlock was the same.

Sherlock blinked, confused, then his taut face smoothened a little and he nearly smiled.

"Have a nice vacation, Gregory."

"Well, you too, Sherlock! Are you going to see Mycroft?"

"I hope not," he said and opened the door when the teacher was done with his speech. "That would be extremely bothersome. He loathes Christmas, so the odds are slim."

"How can you _loathe_ Christmas?" Greg asked with a frown and followed the taller boy out of the school. He shrugged and turned left where they had to part ways. Before long, though, he stopped and turned around.

"Greg!"

Greg turned around as well, looking at Sherlock as a smile started to form in the corners of his lips. It took a long while for Sherlock to continue, and it looked like he turned the words over in his head several times before finally opening his mouth.

"I... I'm looking forward to seeing you."

A smile broke through on his face, and Greg returned it widely, waving a hand.

"Yeah, me too!"

Sherlock turned again and walked in the opposite direction of Greg who also walked home, still smiling.

Once home again, Greg found a parcel on the door step.

It had reached a point where Greg didn't need to read the first few lines of the attached note or even had to see the handwriting before he knew who these were from. The parcel was easily recognizeable, white cardboard with a distinctive scent of whiskey. It hadn't taken long for Greg to associate whiskey with Mycroft which was a bit troublesome.

Whenever he smelt the malty and golden liquid, he looked around him in the hopes of finding Mycroft right behind him, perfectly clad in a three-piece suit, hat and cane, and maybe a small smile on his face. It was never the case, though, and he ended up feeling stupid for having gotten his hopes up.

Greg picked up the parcel and carried it inside. A note was the first thing he noticed, placed on top of a bouquet of carefully wrapped flowers. It read:

_Gregory,_

_I apologize for not being able to spend Christmas with you. I'm afraid I have a major political situation to attend to. Although, it is no great loss, as I find Christmas absolutely pointless, and you would end up kicking me out, I'm sure. Please consider this an early present._

_With love,_

_Mycroft_

Greg smiled while reading. It was true that they had talked about the Christmas-situation over the phone, and Greg had been sad that they wouldn't be able to be together, but he understood the importance of Mycroft's career, or whatever he was doing. It would just be nice to see each other again... it had been such a long time! Half a year! Mycroft called regularly and they would often talk for quite a long time, but it just wasn't the same.

Greg had frequently thought about their 'relationship'. No body knew about it, and even he wasn't sure what it was. Could it even be considered a real relationship like this? He _did_ love Mycroft and all that but he had never been good at long distance relationships, which this technically was. He preferred to see his lover a few times a month, at least, visiting them late at night on weekends to watch movies and make out. Surprise them by the door with a bouquet of flowers and his boyish grin.

He wished he could do that with Mycroft... It would be very nice.

But for now, he had to settle with unexpected phone calls and parcels on his door step. Not that he complained, of course. It was all very thoughtful of Mycroft, just one more reason that Greg didn't believe it when Sherlock said his brother was a complete failure at any sort of relationship. So far, he was doing a pretty good job. Of course, Sherlock knew none of that, as Greg hadn't said a word to him, and he doubted Mycroft would.

Greg smiled and put the flowers in a vase in his room, putting the new note on top of the others. He had quite a stack by now, seeing as he saved every note. He liked looking at them every once in a while, studying the handwriting that was clear and neat, a bit italic and with curvy letters. It was old-fashioned but absolutely gorgeous.

* * *

 

The remaining days until Christmas Eve were spent with movies, snowball fights, homework and assignments. Greg didn't receive any phone calls from Mycroft but he didn't mind. The thing that je had to take care of was probably very important and required all his time.

Greg would have loved to send him a text or something but that was pretty hard without a number. Mycroft always called with private number, and Sherlock had not been interested in sharing the real one, much to Greg's frustration.

On the other hand, that freed him from some of the responsibilities of being a boyfriend. He could basically just lean back and wait for Mycroft to call, for Mycroft to send him flowers and books, for Mycroft to do everything. Not that he was exactly happy with his arrangement but there was little to nothing to be done. 

He might as well accept it. And so he did. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this concludes the story of how Greg fell in love with a stranger on a beach.

It was Christmas Day before Greg heard from him again.

He was sitting by the dinner table in Sherlock's apartment, laughing along with John who had a shockingly shrill laughter, and Sherlock who mostly giggled. The dinner was great, prepared by John, it turned out, and Greg had only few times tasted so delicious roast turkey. One odd thing – neither John nor Sherlock ate a lot. Sherlock had about five bites of the turkey while John only ate one slice of the bird and a few potatoes. Greg ate significantly more than them combined, and it made him feel a bit bad. John and Sherlock didn't comment on it, though, and there was still plenty of food, as Sherlock also pointed out, so he didn't have to hold back.

After dinner and the Christmas Pudding, they pulled the turkey's wishbone. John got the bigger piece and made his wish, whereupon they continued to pull the crackers. Greg got a purple crown and instantly put it on, much to the others' amusement. Sherlock got a whistle that John instantly took away from him, commenting "You'll blow that the entire evening and I will have to give you a beating". John's cracker revealed a piece of paper with two lines printed on it. When Greg began reading it, John was already done and had ripped the paper in two pieces and thrown it out.

"That's not a joke, Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked confused by the shocked reaction. Greg looked from man to man, bemused but not entirely sure he wanted to know the further details. As far as he was aware, Sherlock's sense of humour was... special.

"Don't you find clowns funny?"

"Yes, I do, but _dead babies_ are _not_ funny!"

Sherlock looked at him for a few seconds before rolling his eyes and snatching the whistle out of John's hands, putting it to his lips and blowing hard.

"That's my comment to that," he announced with a smirk. John groaned and hid his face in his hands but he wasn't able to suppress a giggle. Greg decided to chuckle along, and soon enough, they all had tears in their eyes, and John was holding his sides while Sherlock looked away, and Greg was lying across the table.

It might not be a big or fancy gathering of people but they certainly did have fun.

As the day passed and turned the bleak weather dark, they had reached around several conversation topics, and even topics Greg felt shouldn't be talked about at all, and when the clouds vanished to make room for twinkling stars, it was time to open the presents.

John hadn't bought anything for Greg since they didn't know each other that well. Greg brushed his apology off with a smile and assured him it was really okay while handing over his own present to the others. He seemed very happy with the book and thanked Greg many times.

Still smiling, he turned to Sherlock who didn't just look at the book – he studied it. Face so close to the surface his nose was almost touching, his eyes were roaming the front hungrily, and Greg almost thought that he would devour it. Sherlock flipped through the book and read a few lines here and there, his face shifting between wonder and amusement.

"It seems very interesting," he said when he once more stepped back into reality, putting the book under the skull on the mantelpiece.

Greg waited for a 'thank you' but it didn't come. Not that he should have expected different, though. Sherlock rarely thanked anyone.

Then he found his presents for Greg and John. They both got a gun – "Completely real and loaded," Sherlock assured them which nearly caused John to drop the gun and Greg to fire.

"Sherlock, how the hell-" began John, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes and gritted teeth.

"Wasn't that hard. I know a guy who sells them cheaper than most stores."

"But why a gun?!"

Sherlock frowned lightly and sat down near the fireplace.

"What do you mean 'why'? Guns are great, right, Greg?"

"Oh yes," Greg agreed before John could say anything more. His eyebrows rose higher on his face and his jaws dropped a bit.

Greg might not know a lot about guns but he knew found them very fascinating, and he spent the next few hours eagerly discussing them with Sherlock whose pale eyes lit up with passion, and Greg hadn't seen his hands that active in a long time. They were interrupted when Greg's phone went off. Taking it out, he saw that the number was private, and his pulse instantly raced. It tended to do that whenever Mycroft called.

"Excuse me," he said and left the room, taking the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Gregory," sounded a soft and familiar voice.

"Evening, Mycroft." He couldn't keep a wide smile off his face as he leant against the kitchen counter where it was just somewhat clean.

"I hope you aren't too busy at the moment, for I seem to require your assistance."

"... What for? And how am I supposed to help you when you're nowhere near me?"

Greg frowned and looked into the living room where Sherlock was helping John empty the guns for bullets and disassemble the weapons, eagerly explaining the not so excited John about the various components and how they fit together.

"Go to the front door and you should have a good idea."

"I swear, if you're playing some prank on me, Mycroft," Greg whispered and informed the others he would pop outside for minute for some fresh air. Only John responded.

Walking down to the front door where he and John had put their jackets and umbrellas, Greg opened the door, still with the phone in his hand, although it had turned quiet. When he opened, he nearly dropped it. He heard Mycroft hang up and saw him smile widely. Too widely for what his face seemed accustomed to and it looked weird, but it was nice to see nonetheless.

Greg's heart beat even faster and his hand was positively trembling.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he whispered and went outside, closing the door behind him. "I thought you were away for Christmas!"

"Oh, but I was. Now, however, I've come back as you can see. How is my little brother?"

"Absolutely mental, but in a good way, I think." Greg still couldn't quite believe it – Mycroft was standing right there, right in front of him, immaculately dressed in a long coat that just barely revealed the classic three-piece suit. He wasn't wearing a hat, though, and the cane was gone as well.

His eyes were calm but his cheeks red, and Greg suspected it wasn't just because of the cold, for some reason.

"I see. Well, that's good, isn't it?" Mycroft's smiled turned a bit dark but it was gone when Greg blinked. Maybe he had just imagined it?

"Do... do you want to come inside?" Greg asked, knowing it wasn't really his place to invite people inside but what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't let Mycroft stay out here in the cold!

"No, I don't. That would mean facing my little brother, and I don't find that necessary at the moment since the only person I came here to see today was you." Already here, Greg was getting very excited but Mycroft had more to say. "Now that I have seen you, I'm going to enjoy you. You're going home with me."

"Oh, am I now?" Greg protested but by god, how he wanted to do that! But he couldn't just leave John and Sherlock, that wouldn't be fair to them. He had promised Sherlock to spend Christmas Day with him and his friend.

Mycroft's smile diminished and got an even darker feeling to it, making the small hair in the back of Greg's neck stand on end.

"Yes, you are. We both know we both want it. You haven't bought me a Christmas present, which I find very rude, so I shall have you instead."

Oh God, why did he say such things? And why did they have this effect on him? He could practically feel his legs transforming into jelly.

Under Mycroft's hard and controlling stare, Greg was absolutely helpless. He was excited, yes, very excited, but he hated the thought of leaving John and Sherlock, thereby breaking his promise.

"I assure you," Mycroft continued and stepped closer, placing a hand on Greg's shoulder which made a shudder go through him, "Sherlock will accept it. I've made arrangements."

Just as he said that, a sleek, black car pulled up on the kerb. Expensive car, without a doubt. Greg didn't know much about cars but judging from the design – especially the tinted glass – it had to be luxurious, therefore expensive. A man in a tight, black suit exited the vehicle, bowed to Mycroft and walked away. 

He gaped. Just what was Mycroft thinking? Just how rich was he? He wasn't a millionaire or something like that, was he? Though that would explain a lot of things...

"What the bloody hell are you?" Greg hissed and backed inside, only to grab his jacket and umbrella. He shouted up the stairs "I'm sorry, I've got to dash, something important has turned up!" and left again, entering the car together with a smirking Mycroft.

"I'm a businessman."

"At your age?" Greg snorted and looked around the car. It was very fancy, as expected. White leather interior, mahogany dashboard, tinted glass. Almost silent when the engine started running. This definitely wasn't any teenage boy's car. Mycroft had to be really important.

Just what kind of man had he been 'dating' for half a year?

"Of course. Look at me. I'm smart. I make my way in the world by using it. It's really not that hard; I wish more people would do it that way."

Completely dumbfounded, Greg didn't say anything before they had been driving for a good ten minutes. Then he started growing nervous. As it turned out, he knew very little about this man despite having talked with him a lot over the recent months. He could, technically, be a raging psychopath with a sideline as assassin, and Greg wouldn't have a clue.

He preferred not to think like that, though.

"We're going to your place?"

"Correct."

"Why?"

"Oh, Greg, that should be fairly obvious even to you," Mycroft said and sent him a mysterious smile before swerving to the left. Greg's heart skipped a beat, and his mind was instantly producing a dozens of theories all at once, one more improbable but glorious than the other. If they were going to do what he thought they were going to do, he would no longer accept a long-distance relationship. That would just be too cruel.

His hands began shaking again, and he grabbed his knees to keep them occupied.

"Don't worry. I'll take good care of you." The dark tone in his voice was gone, or at least significantly lowered, and he sounded more trustworthy, less sinister.

The rest of the ride was silent, and when they pulled up at Mycroft's house, Greg gaped once again. This wasn't a house. It was a bloody mansion! Big and with two floors, double front doors and huge windows flanked the walls. Around the house was a big lawn with trees and bushes and an elegant birdbath made of marble.

Mycroft stopped the car and exited, then went to Greg's side and opened his door.

"Come on."

Greg followed him inside the house and glared around. A big hall with chairs of deep brown tree and long couches of leather greeted him. In front of him was a wide staircase to the upper floor where he assumed Mycroft's bedroom was. Most people tended to have their bedrooms upstairs if they had more floors.

He wasn't wrong – instead of taking time to introduce him to the entire house, Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder and led him up the stairs, then to the right. The hallway wasn't very long but it was richly decorated with paintings and statues standing by the walls. Their feet walked on a thick carpet with Arabic ornaments and patterns. Quite gorgeous, actually.

They reached the correct door, apparently, and Mycroft pushed it open slowly. Inside awaited a room just as luxuriously decorated as the entrance hall and hallway. A spacious bed stood in the middle of the room, a desk in the right corner and a set of drawers in the opposite end. To Greg's immediate right were two leather armchairs and a small bookcase filled with books.

"Come here, Greg," Mycroft said and took Greg's hand, leading him over to the bed. Excitement was bulding fast in his stomach, and he dared touch Mycroft's chest, stroke a finger along the edges of the waistcoat. Mycroft didn't do anything to stop him, simply smiled, and quite a different smile than the ones Greg had seen so far.

It was... somehow much more sincere, but darker, yet seductive. How could a smile signalize so many different things all at once? Mycroft also seemed much more comfortable. Like this was much more his milieu than a small hotel room in Nerja on the last night of a vacation.

He gave Greg a gentle push and smirked uncharacteristically before sitting next to him on the mattress. Greg's body lit on fire when Mycroft touched his face and neck, continuing down to grip the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. Greg reached out to open Mycroft's waistcoat, looking up at the man as if asking for permission. He got nothing but a vague smile and his shirt thrown to the floor.

He proceeded to open the waistcoat slowly, as he had pictured it in the restaurant. His fingers were surprisingy steady as he went, popping one button after another until he could slide it off the taller man. It landed on the floor almost without a sound, and though Mycroft sent a look after it, he didn't comment on the wrinkles it would get or the dirt it would collect. Then followed the shirt. Mycroft was completely silent as Greg's fingers worked on the buttons and stole a touch of skin here and there. It was impossible for Mycroft to hide the beginning of a blush creeping over his cheeks and Greg found it rather endearing. He made a mental note to make it happen a lot more in the future.

The taller man leaned closer, rather quickly, and kissed Greg with a force that immediately drained every willpower Greg might ever have gathered. He moaned into the other pair of lips, his body shuddering when Mycroft pushed him further down, onto his back, without using his hands, barely even using power.

Shifting positions so they both lied more comfortably on the bed, Mycroft crawled over Greg's halfnaked body, a sinister but not evil smile parting his lips.

"So, Greg," he murmured with a voice that was purposefully lowered to give it the rumbling effect desired, and Greg closed his eyes, gulping, "shall we be a bit more intimate than last?"

"God, yes, please," Greg whispered, his voice hoarse, and he felt like an idiot for being so excited already. He could feel his cock coming to life, straining lightly against his trousers. Mycroft chuckled above him, and the next thing he felt was a big and warm hand resting on his chest, the fingers drawing thin circles onto his skin.

Slowly, ever so slowly, as his skin erupted in goose bumps, Mycroft touched his nipples which went hard close to instantly. Greg took a sharp inhale of air and smiled nervously, breathing out heavily and opening his eyes again. He looked up at Mycroft and smiled, reached up to touch his cheeks, lazily running his fingers over his neck and under the collar of the shirt, sliding it off without too much trouble, and Mycroft continuing his rubbing and pinching Greg's nipples, making him moan.

It was a spur of the moment thing when Greg suddenly pulled him down for a rough kiss that had Mycroft yelp in surprise, the sigh when their lips moved together. Mycroft's lips tasted differently this time, whiskey, as his entire person seemed to smell of. They weren't cold either, but instead warm and greeted Greg's instantly.

The kiss went from rough, passionate, to slower and more sensual, and then Greg began to fiddle with Mycroft's belt. The rustling sound of metal seemed to stimulate the man even further, for he hummed loudly, closing his eyes and slacking his jaws when the belt was removed. Greg grinned and threw it over the edge of the bed.

"Maybe some other time," he whispered and left the pants in favour of rubbing his nipples, his own cock throbbing by the moan Mycroft let pass his lips. He really was much freer here, when he was somewhere he recognized and felt safe. Or maybe it was just because they actually knew each other now, just a bit more?

"Another time?" It was breathy, airy, and Mycroft blushed harder by the sound of it. It only helped to arouse Greg even more.

"You liked the sound of metal. We could try out the belt some time, if you're into that." Mycroft didn't answer but instead nodded and sent Greg a wide smile.

"One of your... interests for mine, don't you think?"

Greg looked Mycroft in the eye for a moment, let his eyes rake the other's man body a few times, then rested on his face again.

"I think you might fulfill every one of them."

At that, Mycroft gave a barking laughter which surprised Greg greatly, but the grey-blue eyes twinkled in a way that told Greg everything he needed to know about his statement.

"How do people stand that kind of talk," Mycroft began but was silenced when he had a hand on the front of his trousers. Greg palmed his quickly hardening cock, grinning up at the other man.

"We just do."

He continued for a while until Mycroft's face was red as a cherry and his breathing ragged, hands scrambling for support beside Greg's head. By then, he was pretty hard himself and ready to continue. He pulled the zipper down and popped open the button, slowly pushed the fabric over Mycroft's arse, squeezing the warm cheeks and relishing in the gasp it elicited from the man.

They moved around on the bed so they could get their pants off, and Greg seized the opportunity to push down and straddle Mycroft who just raised an eyebrow, though his chest was heaving. They were both fully erect, and it was fantastic to look down on him like this. The small curly hairs on his chest, red cheeks and hard nipples, the way he still wasn't sure where to place his hands, so they were restlessly grapping one bundle of sheets after another.

"Do you have lube?" Greg suddenly asked, lowly, leaning down over Mycroft to press open-mouthed kisses to his ear, neck, torso, everywhere he could reach.

"I do," Mycroft answered weakly and pointed towards his desk. "But it's, ah, rahter old, I fear."

"No worries." He kissed his way towards Mycroft's cock, humming every now and then, just to tease him a bit.

When he reached his destination, he hovered his lips over it, breathed along the sensitive shaft and was rewarded with a loud moan and a shudder. He grinned and gave the head a long lick, then took the entire member in his mouth and sucked. Mycroft made a wonderful, strangled sound that was a mixture of a moan and a whine.

Tasting the salty precum, Greg bobbed up and down on the cock, taking more and more for every time, and for every time, Mycroft repeated the sound louder and louder. It was fantastic and made the blood rush much faster in Greg's veins, and though his moaning was choked, it affected Mycroft in the best ways.

It didn't take long before Mycroft was close, judging by his whimpering and hands that clawed at the sheets. Other than that, he lied surprisingly still.

Greg slowly let the cock slide out of his mouth, smiled and sat up. His jaw was aching, to be honest, but it was worth it. Seeing Mycroft blushing and completely beside himself was the best thing that had happened to him all year.

"Go get the lube, Myc," Greg whispered and rolled to the side.

"Mycroft," the other answered in a short breath but nonetheless left the bed to find the lube. He staggered towards the desk on unsteady legs and Greg chuckled at him, enjoying the sigh of his bare arse. 

While waiting for Mycroft to come back, Greg stroked himself slowly, lazily, excited – but also a bit nervous – about having sex with Mycroft. He didn't know why. Maybe he was nervous something would change between them after this barrier, the last physical one, had been broken?

"Whatever it is that takes up brain power, please do forget it, just now," he heard Mycroft's voice say, and the man returned, a bottle of lube in his hand. "It's time to play."

Greg's mind was as whiped, and his lips twitched into a warm smile, tongue unconsciously darting out to lick his lips as Mycroft straddled him.

"Have you done this before?" Greg asked, considering the best position for them. He would love to top but if Mycroft was new, he would maybe like to be in control.

"No." The answer was immediate and confident. It was weird but so, so arousing to see Mycroft hover up him like this and being confident. Greg loved confidence. It was the sexiest thing a person could wear 

"And I trust you to make it unforgetable."

"Oh, I intend to," Greg mumbled and pulled Mycroft down for another searing kiss. His heart was racing and a prickling sensation was taking over his fingertips. He put his arms around Mycroft's neck and rubbed his back and neck where he could reach. This time, the kissing was only brief, before Mycroft broke away to pour some of the lube onto his fingers. His confidence had dwindled a tiny bit but there was still enough to take Greg's breath away. He didn't protest as Mycroft reached down and behind to prepare himself, although it took him a bit by surprise. 

Mycroft's eyes fell shut as he slipped the first finger inside, biting his lower lip. Greg was incredibly turned on, and it was all he could do not to attack Mycroft in that moment, because he looked... not exactly fragile, but he was vulnerable as he arched his back and pushed deeper into himself. There was something about the curved spine and heaving chest, seeing the fingers – two, now – move in and out in that slow, hypnotizing way.

And Mycroft knew it. He opened his eyes and laughed at Greg, albeit breathlessly.

"You enjoy watching?"

"Well, yeah," Greg croaked, "apparently I do."

It wasn't even necessary to touch himself to keep him hot and bothered – watching Mycroft did the trick. The looser he became, the quicker he could thrust his fingers in and out, and when he was using three fingers, although with a little bit of trouble, Greg stopped him with a strangled croak.

"Think you're ready," he whispered and took the bottle of lube, squeezing some onto his cock and slicking it up so it would all go easier.

"Okay." It was probably worth noting that Mycroft sounded a bit reluctant there, and he took his sweet time removing his fingers for Greg. Then he moved on top of him, took a deep breath and began lowering himself onto Greg's cock.

Mycroft was still tight but loose enough to not hurt – too much – when Greg pushed up to meet him. Mycroft made a face.

"I'm sorry," Greg whispered and put his hands on Mycroft's hip, thumbs rubbing soothing touches into the skin. His bones weren't exactly visible but the outlines were easy to see. He had a bit of meat on his stomach but it didn't do anything, at all. If anything, it made him look better, even if he would probably argue.

Mycroft just nodded and took another deep breath, slowly taking more and more of Greg's cock. At one point, Greg was sure that Mycroft couldn't take anymore – it looked like he was in pain and Greg didn't want that.

"Stop if you... feel uncomfortable."

But he didn't – he continued until his arse was against the base of Greg's cock, panting heavily and his cheeks bright red, eyes closed and brows furrowed lightly. Greg himself had his mouth open and didn't do or say anything, simply let the feeling – and knowledge – of being fully inside Mycroft overwhelm him.

He didn't move until a nod from Mycroft told him it was okay. Tryingly, he pushed up and could feel the entire body shudder and clench around him. It was glorious and unbelievably hot. Then Mycroft rose a bit and sank down again. Each movement, each little twist of his hips, every little shift of his leg, caused his insides to move and massage Greg, and it was hard to think properly.

Greg pushed up and Mycroft went down. They created a rhythm that they could both work with, and it was wonderfully intense and intimate. Sometimes they looked into each other's eyes, sometimes they touched all over, but most of the time, they just kissed.

Without disturbing the sort-of rhythm they had got working for them, Mycroft occasionally stroked himself, letting go of high-pitched sounds and whimpers, and Greg was only happy to help. He would often pinch and rub Mycroft's nipples and watch his face screw up and feel his entire body shudder and inside convulse around him, often so much Greg thought he would come in that very moment.

But he didn't.

There were times where he was just about to reach his climax, and then, as if he knew, Mycroft would change his angle a tiny bit, just enough to make the pressure disappear, and Greg would lie back down on the bed, frustrated but even more aroused and aching than before. It was a sweet torture, and to be honest, he wanted it to last, because it meant he got to see Mycroft arch his back even more, ribs becoming clearer and his face make such beautiful expressions.

He loved to feel Mycroft's hands curl against his chest, to hear the small puffs of breath and the sounds, both deep rumbling moans and higher, elongated whines when Greg hit just the right spot. Yes, he didn't want to stop but there came a time where Mycroft was trembling so much and his cock dripping with so much precum that Greg knew he would come soon.

"Greg," Mycroft whispered, his face contorted with need, but he didn't need to say more.

Greg made a few hard thrusts and Mycroft clenched gorgeously around him, sending them both over the edge at almost the same time.

It was a long, long moment where Greg was tense as a bow and Mycroft's body was almost terrifyingly bent, and nothing mattered, becuase they were together and deeply connected, felt it vibrate in their hearts. They couldn't hear anything, couldn't see anything but blinding white, and it was all okay because their fingers were tightly entwined.

Then they came down from their heights.

Mycroft was panting and shaking, head hanging low as he fought to regain his composure. His hair wasn't slicked back anymore, but instead dishevelled. He had closed his eyes and his arms were trembling under the pressure.

Gently, and with the very last powers, Greg rolled them over so they laid on their sides. He was also out of breath but so, so happy and very exhausted. But mostly happy. He kept Mycroft close by the hand and was still inside him when Mycroft opened his eyes and his breathing had slowed down to something more normal.

They lay there for a while until Greg had attentiveness enough to slide out of Mycroft with a wet and rather disgusting sound. Mycroft winced lightly but he reassured Greg with a smile and gentle kiss.

"How was that for starters?"

"Not bad," Mycroft mumbled and laughed lowly, stroking Greg's face lazily before closing his eyes.

Well, at least that was better than 'horrible', which had been some of his first feedback. Bad times were they. Then again, Mycroft didn't have much to compare with, which could be both a good and a bad thing. Right now, Greg decided it was a good thing.

"I hope it was good for you as well."

"Yeah, it was really nice," Greg said and smiled. Mycroft had closed his eyes again. Was he drifting off to sleep? That would be understandable. Greg himself felt sleepy but he didn't want to fall asleep the first. For some reason, it seemed... weak. Like he couldn't even stay awake and wait for his partner to fall asleep before letting go of his own consciousness. But in reality, there was nothing wrong. One of them had to fall asleep first, anyway. Might as well be him.

He didn't get to, though. His trail of thoughts was interrupted by Mycroft who sounded concerned. His eyes were still closed and his eyebrows knotted together. The grip on Greg's hand slacked a bit.

"How would you classify your feelings for me, Greg?"

That was a question he hadn't seen coming so soon after their fist intercourse. It was a bit of a moodkiller, actually, but he didn't say that out of fear of hurting Mycroft. He sounded anxious enough already; there was no reason to add to it.

Greg was very certain about his feelings for Mycroft. It was all a question about saying them out aloud now. That seemed very barrier-breaking, all of a sudden, which was completely ridiculous. Everything they had said over the phone, everything that Mycroft had done for and sent to him, had led to this very moment, hadn't it? The moment where Greg would admit his feelings, and Mycroft would take it or leave it.

The thing that Greg feared the most was probably that Mycroft would leave him because he saw himself as unfit for a normal, healthy and enjoyable relationship.

"Love, I think." Did his voice actually shake, or was he just imagining things? He really hoped he was just imagining.

"Really?" Mycroft sounded surprised, and he opened his eye a bit, just enough to get a glimpse of Greg.

"Really."

That ended their conversation for the time being. Greg, drowsy as he was, eventually began drifting in and out of sleep, never long enough to dwelve in the deep of it, but enough that it hurt his eyes whenever he woke up again.

He noticed that every time he was awake, so was Mycroft, and he began doubting he even slept. Something was probably on his mind. Greg took the liberty to assume it could be solved with the same question he had been asked.

"So, Myc, what-"

"Mycroft."

Greg rolled his eyes but had a small smile on his face nonetheless.

"Fine, _Mycroft_ , what do you feel for me, eh? Please don't say it's just a one-sided thing – that would be terrible." Greg might sound sarcastic but he meant it, deeply. He really would hate it if this was over now. He was really fond of Mycroft, loved him, yes, and he begged that it was mutual.

To his horror, Mycroft didn't answer immediately. He instead mulled over the question, eyes clearly moving behind closed lids, and he was making small noises, as if he was talking to himself.

"I'm fairly certain I love you as well."

Greg's heart stopped beating for a second before restarting with the power of a hundred wild horses. That was good, very good, sounded very promising.

"Fairly certain?" he still teased, poking Mycroft's nose which didn't give rise to much of a reaction.

"I mean it. I have been rather good to you by sending you presents every so often, and this," he gestured down towards their still naked bodies, "didn't make me think any less of you. I therefore suppose that I indeed feel love for you."

_Even better_.

"That's... good. Very good," Greg said with a warm voice and snuggled closer to the taller man.

And, knowing this, he once again fell asleep, though firmer and heavier. It was actual sleep and not just a nap.

Mycroft made sure that Greg was fast asleep before he muttered a "I fear it won't last long, though," and pulled the covers over them. They were still dirty and would be sticky and even more disgusting in the morning but that worry was for another time.

Just as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep as well, Mycroft's phone buzzed with an incoming text. 

'Wrong. Will last longer than you might think. -SH'


End file.
